Interview With the Mockingjay
by Kiwiwriter47
Summary: Here's a slightly different take on the events after "Mockingjay." A journalist from the Capitol's newspaper goes to District 12 to find out the real story - and come to terms with his own role in the Second Rebellion and his own lost love.
1. Chapter 1

INTERVIEW WITH THE MOCKINGJAY – Chapter 1

I needed my war to understand why my father never talked about it.

My father was a Peacekeeper.

So was his father.

And his father before him.

And his father before that.

So when I was growing up in District 2, I naturally expected that I would become a Peacekeeper.

That is, until I was 10 years old, and I told Daddy I wanted to be a Peacekeeper, too, and he turned around, pointed a gnarled index finger at me, and said, "No son of mine is going to be a Peacekeeper! Charlie Allbright is not a Peacekeeper!"

That was the only thing he said to me about his work, before and after he retired. After the ceremony, he hung his uniform up in the closet, put the medals away in a drawer, and never talked about being a Peacekeeper again.

He only had one thing to say about the Hunger Games, too. He'd look up from his beer while he was watching them, and say quietly, "Thank God you'll never be a tribute." Then he'd look back down at his beer. He had the Hunger Games on – who didn't – but he never looked straight at the violence on the TV screen. It was like he was looking a thousand yards into the distance. So there was always this massive gap between us. This giant mystery. Why a man who had served for 20 years as a Peacekeeper, earned decorations for it, would not want his son to follow in his footsteps. Or even talk about it.

He'd talk about everything else – gossip, family, friends, what I was going to do with my life, but his work was the forbidden subject. He didn't attend reunions of former Peacekeepers, or go to their functions in the Capitol. The invite would arrive, and it would go sailing across the room into the garbage.

Fortunately, my desire to be a Peacekeeper didn't last past age 10, either. Nor did I have to worry about being a Tribute. Every time they held the Reaping, there was practically a fistfight among my schoolmates to see who would volunteer to get slaughtered in the arena. And the winner of the fistfight was almost invariably the winner of the Games. Those that didn't make the games became Peacekeepers, anyway.

I didn't think much of the games anyway. It just looked like the Capitol shoving their power down our throats again, year after year. At least we weren't like the starving scarecrows from Districts 11 and 12.

By the time of the Second Rebellion, I was 29 years old, and running the district's official newsletter. Opinions were divided in the newsroom over what we should do – support the rebellion, support the government, or just hide in the woods. I called the staff together, and told them they had to act on their individual consciences. Then we shut down the paper.

But I had a competitive edge all those years. While my schoolmates were learning how to hurl javelins and swing axes for the Hunger Games, my English teacher shared with me the language. Since I didn't have to worry about being reaped, I read her rare volume of Shakespeare. "You have to believe there can be something better to life than the garbage they spout on television," she said. "Just keep it to yourself, until the time is right."

When the rebels invaded District 2, they seized our village almost without a fight. The local Peacekeepers fled into the Nut. Before I did anything, I asked my father what I should do. He looked right into my face with those tearful black eyes, and just said, "Join the rebels." Then he looked away, trying to avoid my eyes.

The rebels needed fighters and writers. They needed fighters to win the battles and writers to explain the fighting to everybody else. I became a "combat correspondent," lugging a rifle, a notebook, and recorder, filing stories for Plutarch Heavensbee, who I never met. He was just a disjointed message or a rare phone call, saying, "Good job, Allbright!"

Daddy didn't ask me about the war, either. When it ended and we won, I came home. There was no victory parade in District 2. I just walked into the house at the end of the road, and dropped my duffel bag in the door. Daddy came down the stairs, very slowly, and looked me over, looking a lot older than his 57 years. He wasn't much into hugs.

"You made it," he said.

"Yeah," I answered. "I'm home." It was all very anti-climactic. We just stared at each other. There was this long silence between us. Finally, I said, "I don't want to talk about it."

He nodded slowly. "Now you know," he said. Then he solemnly shook my hand, and shuffled into the kitchen to get me a bottle of beer. I opened my duffel bag, found the little frame with my medals on it, climbed up the stairs, and put them right next to Daddy's plaques.

Then I shut the door and didn't look at them again. For two weeks, I sat in the back garden, watching Daddy practice his putts. District 2, being a favored district, had a golf course. The Capitol had better ones, of course, but most of them had been plowed up by bombs and shells, and nobody was wasting resources on repairing them. But Daddy had this dream. Some day he would play golf in the Capitol. He putted. I watched. We spoke to each other in monosyllables. I had nightmares by night, and silences by day.

Five weeks later, I got the call from the editor of my division's newsletter, George Altman, an guy in his 50s, who saw something in my ability and my background. He'd just got a cushy new job, taking over the Panem Times, the nation's "newspaper of record," which was, like the rest of the country, re-inventing itself. Was I up to reporting on that re-inventing, he wanted to know?

Sure, I said, if it pays well. And if the train can get me there. "It'll pay well," he said. "And there are some really good fringe benefits. Of course, some of it will not exactly be fun, but it should be easier than the war."

So I left Daddy to his putting and his silence, and took a train to the Capitol.

"We need to tell the people what they need to know, not what President Snow wanted them to hear," George said when we sealed the deal over drinks at one of the few Capitol restaurants that didn't get wrecked in the fighting. "We are building a new and hopefully cleaner society, to replace a tyrannical one, and we have to report this process honestly and fairly. I need reporters who can communicate well and with compassion.

"Compassion is the most important thing," George continued. "For the past 75 years, this country has been based on sadism. We have to teach people that caring must come first and the dignity and value of the individual human being." George was and is a guy with a round face and not much hair. He came from District 9, where they grow corn and wheat. His mother was some kind of grief counselor there, helping people with personal problems. He ran their newspaper. As soon as District 9 rebelled, he turned an official rag into an incendiary broadsheet.

"Journalism is one way to advocate for the powerless," he said, swirling his Scotch. "We have to make people feel and understand what's happened since the Mockingjay won the 74th Hunger Games, what happened before, and what's happening now."

Outside, I could hear the roar of armored vehicles. Ten weeks after the death of President Snow, and the Rebel army – now the Panem Army – was still patrolling the bomb-blasted streets. President Paylor had said in a recent press conference that until the Districts were being cared for, she wasn't going to expend resources on making the Capitol beautiful again. "I couldn't look Districts 11 and 12 in the face if I cleaned up Capitol streets while people are still starving out there," she said. "The people of Capitol City have to start sharing the burdens."

"I'll bet that little statement went over real well with the residents of Capitol City," I told George as an armored car rumbled by.

"Most of the population has become alienated with the previous regime by that slaughter at the Presidential Palace," he answered. "The rest have either fled or are learning the hard way. Our greatest problems are actually convincing many people in Districts 1, 2, and 4 that their culture of worshipping violence has to end."

"You mean the people who worshipped the Hunger Games," I said. "And I'm from District 2."

"Your District was the last district to fall to the rebellion," George said, "And you're that District's most eloquent voice. You can speak to the nation in general and the district in particular of the horrors we've been through and the need for positive change. That's the biggest reason I want you on this paper."

"It has nothing to do with the fact that Panem has four competing newspapers and Plutarch Heavensbee's TV station, and that we have a national population of about 2.5 million people," I said.

George smiled broadly and shook his head. "I would never think of something so crass." The smile faded. "But the offer stands."

Needless to say, I took the job. I had one condition. They had to hire Kae Lyn Harrington, my photographer from the war. That wasn't a problem, George told me…she was already on the staff. They would assign her to me. Anything to make the combat correspondent happy.

Two weeks later, I was occupying an apartment that had previously belonged to a pastry chef, covering the war crimes and conspiracy trials. I even had a maid, a former Capitol socialite named Calpurnia, who lost it all when a155-mm shell blasted open the side of her apartment building. She was very good on keeping up appearances. I think she threw herself into working for me to so as not to think about how her world had been turned upside down.

I took me and her two weeks to clear out the stench of moldy bread, but I covered the trials for seven months. They were carried live on TV networks, so the whole country was watching the sordid tale of brutality, conspiracy, corruption, and most of all, contempt for people. There were few acquittals. They were starting from the top down, so I had to cover the trials of the senior cabinet members.

I found out that a lot of working for a major national newspaper was not fun. Like war crimes trials, for instance. The defendants were all bloated sybarites, who profited from tyranny, sadism, and corruption. With their weight gone, their plastic surgery undone, wearing gray prison uniforms, they looked as repulsive as their crimes sounded. I had very little sympathy for them, and I know it showed in my writing.

My bosses quickly recognized that these trials were making me sour, so they would send me to the new schools in some of the districts to give the "Career Day" pep talks to students. I'd talk to kids about how empowering writing could be, and they should become journalists.

They would ask if there was a "fun" or an "exciting" part to covering these trials. Or about fighting in the rebellion. It's hard to find something "fun" when a widow is testifying about how her whole family starved to death while some bigshot in the Capitol was getting specially-cooked personal bread loaves. I didn't talk to them about the war.

So it's been seven months of the ministers' trials, and they are moving on to the Peacekeeper leadership, and George is calling me in to his office on a Friday and shutting the door, which is never a good sign. He is wearing a white shirt that droops too much over his belly, and a vest. Like most people in the Capitol, he's losing weight under the more austere post-war diet. All our clothes are too big on us now.

George never wastes time in conversations. "Your father was a Peacekeeper, right?"

"Yeah, retired. Did his 20 and out."

George nods, and stares down at the floor, which has three versions of next day's front page on display. "He was decorated, right?" George continues.

"He has a few medals. I don't know how he earned them." And I'm not going to find out, I don't say.

George looks at me with a sad smile. "Some day you must get his story." He pauses. "And tell us yours."

I shrug, but I can feel my stomach churning. "It was a war," I say. "We won." George has tried again to get my first-person exclusive on my part in Snow's downfall, and failed, as usual.

"Yep," he says, with a gulp.

George kneels down on the carpet and studies at the front pages. The lead story is the latest verdict on the old Secretary of Education. He'd taken payoffs to look the other way while schools in my own district trained Careers. He considered that "sound preparation for the Hunger Games." The prosecutor called that "profiting from training killers." The judges sided with the prosecutor. Now the only question is whether or not the secretary will get the rope.

"I think he should hang," George says.

"He trained killers," I say. "He didn't fire-bomb kids. I think he's going to get 30 years." George nods.

"You're probably right. I'll go with the one in the middle," he says, pointing at the chosen front page. Then he looks at me. "I have to take you off the Peacekeeper trial coverage. Do you have a problem with that?"

I think for a moment. "No, actually, I don't. I've had seven months of these trials. I can use a break."

George exhales. "I'm glad. I was all set to give you the big lecture on how having the son of a Peacekeeper covering the trials of Peacekeepers could be a conflict of interest. You just saved me a lecture. Grab a seat."

"Didn't know I needed a lecture," I say as I sit down. "You don't," George says, collapsing into his chair. "But I need your very best effort for the next month. I'm putting you on the biggest story we're facing as a nation and a newspaper."

"The hunt for Caesar Flickerman?" I ask.

George laughs. The infamous host of the Hunger Games had vanished in the chaos of the war. The government is determined to locate him, because he may be the spark for a counter-revolution, if the new regime falls on its ass.

"No man with that ridiculous pompadour can stay hidden very long," George says.

"He can if he shaves it off. Besides, he's a motormouth, not a politician. I don't know why he's so important. He never had an original idea in his life."

"Yeah, but people listen to motormouths. Anyway, that's not the story." George reaches onto his desk and grabs a Mockingjay medal. It's one of the thousands that have been produced during and since the Rebellion. He leans forward. "Charlie, I want you to find the Mockingjay."

I think my jaw goes slack. What the hell? "Me? You want me to go down to find Katniss Everdeen?"

"Precisely."

"Every journalist and muckraker and fake prophet and publicity seeker in Panem is trying to get an interview with the Mockingjay," I say. "I've got a better chance of an interview with President Snow, and he's been dead seven months. The District 12 Commissioner arrests people who try to interview Katniss Everdeen. They protect her."

"Yeah, but we've got the competitive edge." He reaches around his desk, which is stacked with papers, and comes up with a parchment envelope, which he hands me. Inside is a letter from President Paylor. One sentence. Paylor doesn't go for fancy phraseology.

"To the Commissioner of District 12: You are ordered to render all assistance to Panem Times journalist Charles Allbright and his team in their efforts to interview Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mullark. Respectfully, President Paylor."

I let out a whistle. "Jesus, George, this is incredible. The president is ordering District 12 to cooperate with me?"

"This has been a political football for the past two months, and a growing national crisis since the war ended. There are 80 million theories about Katniss Everdeen and nobody knows the right answer. First she was the 'girl on fire.' Then she was the star-crossed lover. She became the symbol of the revolution. Then she shot the leader of the revolution. Then everybody said she was crazy. Then it turned out the leader of the revolution was going to be as bad as the leader of the old government."

"Nobody knows why she did what she did, or how she did it. Many people think she's just plain crazy," I say, handing back the letter.

George waves it off. "No, you keep the original. Put it on your 'I Love Me' wall after this is over. But that's the exact point. Only one person in all of Panem can tell us her own story, and that's Katniss Everdeen. The whole country is looking to her for guidance as we rebuild. She could set us on the right course."

"Or the wrong one," I answer.

George shrugs. "That's something we have to find out. Charlie, we have a ruined nation trying to rebuild. A nation of widows, amputated veterans,blasted buildings, and confused people. The government is trying to make our people compassionate, caring, and united after 75 years of sadism and terror. We're not going to build a new nation if we build it on lies."

"George, she's a reclusive 18-year-old kid, who's been tortured, starved, beaten, lost her little sister, lost her home, been through the Hunger Games twice, liberated this city in gruesome combat, and then went totally crazy…"

"All the more reason why we need her story." He waggles his index finger at me. "There are other important reasons. We have new generations coming up and they are all drawing inspiration from what they've heard. They should draw inspiration from the facts, not the legend. And that generation also needs correction."

"In what way?"

"You know this better than anybody. How many kids in your school wanted to be Tributes?"

"Think of a number and double it. What are you getting at?"

"How many of them do you think still want to be Tributes?"

I squeeze the letter in my hands. "Nearly all. The trials are going right over their heads."

"They see the Hunger Games as being glamorous and exciting. And the winner gets a life of ease. We have to erase that concept in the teenagers coming up." "Can't we do it with the trials of the Gamemakers and their staff? Don't you think the testimonies of family members of dead Tributes will make good TV and copy? I've interviewed them myself."

"A famous man from our planet's early history said that the death of one man is a tragedy, the death of thousands is a statistic. Our people are being buried in statistics right now."

"Who was the famous man?" I ask.

"A guy who ruled another continent. His name was Josef Stalin."

I think I've heard the name. Since the liberation, the history of Earth is being dug out from sealed libraries and mansions. As a society, we're trying to regain our memory. I read Shakespeare. Kae Lyn listens to the blues. And George does Sherlock Holmes. I guess he thinks Katniss Everdeen is the next Holmes adventure.

"Katniss Everdeen has the undivided attention of the current generation of youth," George says. "Her life's message will speak directly to all the disaffected and disenfranchised teenagers out there and connect them with our new society. We have to move speedily to disarm a potentially violent generation, which could rally behind a demagogue, overthrow the government, and restore tyranny."

That's a hard point to argue with. George usually cuts straight through the garbage and finds the central issue. Makes for a good editor. "What if her message is 'more violence?' What if she's plain nuts? Then her message could inflame that same generation."

George throws his chair back. "I thought long and hard about that. It's a major ethical question." I start to ask why, but he answers my question. "If she turns out to be an apostle of violence or just plain crazy, we can't run the story." "What do we do?" "We report the situation to President Paylor, kill the story, and leave her alone." George thumps his desk.

I lean back in my sofa. "That's the deal you made with the president. If she supports the government, we have the story of the century. If not, we cover it up. So we're really acting as agents of the government."

"Not a good thing for a newspaper to do," George whispers. "But these are unusual times." "But why us to act as the interrogators? Can't the government just send a couple of their researchers down there with a recorder and say, 'Katniss, we need you to spill your guts and save the nation?'"

"She won't talk to them," George says.

"You're kidding."

"President Paylor went there personally in a hovercraft, and she slammed the door in the president's face. She doesn't want any invasion of her privacy. The government needs the truth, but they have to handle her with kid gloves." George pauses. "As you said, she's an 18-year-old girl, who's been tortured, beaten, starved, manipulated, and not even the president is willing to risk damaging her further. Even to save the nation. I think at some levels, everybody's afraid of her."

I look back down at the front pages. Maybe George should go with the one on the right, I think absently. The Education Secretary's bland face is punctuated by eyes bulging out of his head in amazement. "There's a lot riding on this story," I say.

George nods. He looks away at his office wall, which has a framed copy of the first issue of the new Panem Times on it. The story was Paylor's inauguration ceremony. "It may be the biggest story in world history. Another tyranny takes over, it could lead to war and annihilation of Panem."

I look up. "Okay, but I have a few more questions."

George shrugs. "Shoot."

"Why me? I'm the son of a Peacekeeper. She won't talk to the president, why should she talk to the son of a cop who may have killed her best friends? I grew up in District 2, which won most of the Hunger Games. She probably hates our District on principle."

"You may be the son of a Peacekeeper, you may be from District 2, but you're also the best reporter, the most intuitive writer, and the most caring person I have on staff. I need someone who can empathize with suffering. You saw plenty in the war. You're a combat veteran. You opposed the Hunger games. You've covered the trials. In your own way, you have shared experiences. I'm counting on your ability to empathize with her and make a connection."

I can't argue with that kind of logic. "How long have I got?"

"As long as it takes."

"What if she slams the door in my face?"

"You do the same thing you always do in getting the information we need. You talk to everybody in District 12, from the Commissioner down to the kids in the parks. If they have any. You work on the people she knows and trusts, and gain their trust."

"But we're still trying to manipulate her."

"We need to know her truth. And part of that is how she was manipulated."

"We can tell that story." George thumps the table. "Absolutely. It's an important message to our citizens to avoid being manipulated. Maybe she can send a message in just saying, 'Don't be like me. Say no to violence.'" I think for a long time. "I think you want to empower her, rather than manipulate her."

George's voice takes on a hushed tone. "My mother used to say that all the time in counseling sessions. Try to find empowerment in any situation, and use it to become stronger. This is more than a big exclusive, Charlie. This is about ending a war and healing a nation."

I put my head in my hands to absorb the situation. I think about the kids I grew up with in District 2, who had only one subject of discussion: how they would win the Hunger Games. The Games are gone, but that sick, twisted hunger remains. That hunger has to be filled with the more wholesome food that the new society is making. But District 12…we're talking about a society that is a sealed-off compartment, like a lot of the empty apartments in the Capitol. Nobody knows what's behind the locked doors of apartments that belong to dead people or criminals awaiting trial. I look back up at George. "How about this…suppose we start off with stories about District 12. It's the smallest and least-known district, anyway, and the whole war started there. Before the war, everybody thought they were a bunch of inbred yokels. Now it's a martyred ruin. I could do a series of stories about how the district is rebuilding itself, positive pieces, which would win the confidence of the residents, and make them willing to open up to me. Through them, I can connect with her."

It's George's turn to lean back in his chair and think. He stares at the ceiling and the blinking fluorescent lights. Then he exhales slowly. "That's good. Very good. There's a compelling national interest in what's going on in District 12. In many ways, it's the laboratory for how we rebuild the whole country. No District suffered as much under Snow and no District suffered as much damage in the Rebellion. Okay. File regular stories on the rebuilding process. We'll run them up front."

"Okay. I'll need some time to get up to speed on this project." "I'll get our library guys to work with you. We'll go over the files and tapes on Monday. Tuesday I want you on that train to the mountains."

"I also need Kae Lyn Harrington. She's been my camera woman in a year of war and seven months of peace." She's the only one I can talk to about the war.

"Your camera woman?"

"Yeah. I don't go anywhere without her."

George shakes his head. "You can't have her," he says blandly. I flush red.

"Can't have her? What the hell, George? She's fast and she's good." "Precisely why I need her on the hunt for Flickerman. She's going out Tuesday with the patrols."

"Damn it, George! You say this is only the biggest story in history and you take away my camera!" I can't tell him that I need her as a friend more than I need her behind the lens.

"Which is why I'm giving you Ace Archer."

"Archer?" He's 19. From District 1. The only thing I know about him is that he's fast and good.

"Don't know the guy personally."

"He's a good photographer."

"That I know. He can shoot pictures."

"Then you have no objections to taking him?"

"I'd rather take Kae Lyn, than have to break in a new photographer." I sigh. "But if that's what you want, I'll take him."

"Great." George rises to shake my hand. "Look, I don't want to put too much pressure on you, but the nation needs the Mockingjay's story told. For good or evil, Katniss Everdeen put this country on its present path. We need to know that it's the right one. You're the only one who can do this."

I know it's time to go. "I hear you."

As I leave, George offers one final piece of advice. "And, Charlie? May the odds be ever in your favor."

I turn back. George has a wan smile. "Thanks a lot, boss." "Any time, kiddo."


	2. Chapter 2

**INTERVIEW WITH THE MOCKINGJAY – Chapter Two**

There aren't too many bars and restaurants left standing in the Capitol. Many of them were blasted in the war, and most of the rest have been closed. The new people that are running Panem wouldn't dine in the Capitol's old clubs anyway. They were ornate mini-palaces, filled with velvet and leather, where debauched voluptuaries could engage in group sex or watch re-runs of old Hunger Games action on gigantic TV screens amid vats of food and liquor. They're all gone now. Only the big-screen TVs are left.

The new watering holes reflect the postwar environment. They're all subdued and quiet, like their patrons. The old Capitol citizens are all stunned and shocked by their collapse, and the new citizens are all hard-working, serious, even grim. The old gang doesn't want to party and the new gang doesn't know how.

My favorite bar is a couple of blocks from the paper's office, and most of the regulars are either newspaper folks or staff from the nearby courts. After a hard day of war crimes and other trials, the prosecutors, defenders, court clerks, and staff all drown the horror or tedium in the same place. Sometimes the defense counsels corner the prosecutors in the leather booths in back and try to make deals. Mostly they just hoist back a few shots to try and forget the testimony they've just heard.

Or they stare up at the little stage, where singers try out old songs that are being re-discovered. Up on the stage, a thick guy in a black suit is tuning his guitar.

I find Kae Lyn Harrington in our usual corner, staring into a beer. She's a small black girl with natural, weaved hair. In her beige vest, she looks like her cameras are pulling her down on the floor. A pal once suggested that a stiff wind could knock her over…until he saw her carry a wounded man back from his foxhole to the aid station.

I've known Kae Lyn for nearly two years. We were first assigned as embedded reporter and photographer in an airborne unit, taught to jump out of hoverplanes, so we could write and shoot stories about the most daring troops in the rebel army. When the paper hired me after the war, I told them to hire Kae Lyn. They didn't need to hear it. They'd already hired her. She can keep her camera focused while bullets are whizzing around her. I don't think she has time for emotions when she's shooting.

Kae Lyn came from District 3, where they make all the high technology. That got her into cameras and videostreaming. She joined the rebellion for the same reason most people joined it. She was inspired by the Mockingjay.

But now she looks like she might cry. She must know already, I think. I guess they told her separately.

I flop down onto the stool next to her and signal the bartender for a bottle of beer. "You look like you heard the bad news already."

Kae Lyn shakes her head and doesn't look up.

"George Altman is a pretty good guy for a boss," I say, swilling a little beer, "but sometimes he gets stupid ideas…"

"I'm not upset about them breaking us up for this story, although that's bad enough," she says, in her tight voice. "I can't believe they'd take me off the biggest story we've got, though."

Her statement unnerves me. Something worse than the two of us being broken up? What the hell?

"So what is it?" I ask

She takes a deep draft of beer, and slams her lacquered nails on the bar. The bartender knows this is her signal for a shot, which arrives almost immediately. When the shot arrives, she downs it, and then looks at me with tear-filled eyes.

"Cornbread is dead," she says.

Cornbread Swenson is dead? I remember him with utter clarity. A huge man with blond hair, standing up at Lewis's Bridge, blazing away at rows of attacking Peacekeepers. When the attack was defeated, he climbed back down into his trench, imperturbable, grinned, and said, "That is how we do that, ladies and gentlemen."

He was one of the 150 survivors of that battle. We went into it with 700.

I slug some beer down. It tastes harsh. I think District 2 had better beer. "What happened?"

Kae Lyn throws her weaved hair back, straightens up, and says, "They told him he couldn't get discharged, so he sneaked a hand grenade out of the ammo locker, and blew himself up."

I cannot answer. The guy with the guitar tunes it again. The odor of cigarettes and liquor wafts past my nostrils, but I smell cordite and burning flesh instead. I turn around from the bar and stare across at the other patrons. Three Capitol residents are huddled at a table, in the outrageous orange-purple-and blue outfits they still wear, with the usual stunned expressions on their faces. They still can't believe their government was so evil. Or maybe they just can't believe they lost the war and their easy lives. Believe it, dummies. Maybe if you'd shown some interest in what was going on around you, you might not have those sad looks on your faces now.

Kae Lyn continues. "He told his commanding officer that he didn't want to stay in the Army, and they told him they couldn't let him go just yet, because they needed his experience to train the new army. They call it 'stop-loss.'"

"How do we know all that?"

"He wrote out a suicide note," Kae Lyn says, her voice flat and hard.

"The war's over," I say. "The army's being trained to secure our frontiers and for humanitarian missions. Cornbread knew that."

Kae Lyn shakes her head, her hair bobbing. "I know. He knew. You know. But he just had enough." There is a long silence, broken by the tuning guitar. I wish the musician would either play the damn thing or stop tuning it. "The funeral's tomorrow, back in District 7. You coming?"

"I wouldn't miss it for anything."

Kae Lyn nods, her hair bouncing. "I'll call you in the morning. Ready?"

"Ready," I say.

We turn back to the bar and stare down into our beers. I waggle my finger at the bartender, and he obediently brings us two shots. We both hold them up.

"One," Kae Lyn says.

"Two," I reply.

"Three," she answers back.

"Cornbread," we both say, and hoist the shots. We don't hug. We don't cry. We both fought in the war together. We've both seen hundreds of men and women die, in all kinds of ghastly ways. We have to keep sane.

The musician is ready to play. He strums his guitar, and sings into the microphone, in a husky voice.

"I hurt myself today,

"To see if I still feel,

"I focus on the pain,

"The only thing that's real…

"The needle tears a hole,

"The old familiar sting,

"Try to kill it all away,

"But I remember everything,

"What have I become,

"My sweetest friend,

"Everyone I know,

"Goes away in the end,

"And you could have it all,

"My empire of dirt,

"I will let you down,

"I will make you hurt…"

Everyone is riveted to the singer and his song.

"You know it?" Kae Lyn asks me. "It's not a blues song."

"I think it's called 'Hurt,'" I say. "It's appropriate to the moment."

"Yeah," Kae Lyn says. "So, they split us up." She's changing directions. She doesn't want to go back to the war, to Lewis's Bridge. Every time we come near it, we always back away. It's how we survive.

In purely technical terms, the Battle of Lewis's Bridge is a long, but simple story. Col. Augustus "Gus" Lewis, a Capitol military history instructor, defected to the rebels when they announced the 75th Anniversary Quarter Quell, like many people. He was disgusted by a government that sent pregnant winners of a previous Hunger Game back into the arena. He also told me he was also angry about how he was treated by the government – teaching military history was considered a backwater assignment in Peacekeeper training. New Peacekeepers wanted to know how to torture people and crack skulls. They weren't interested in the intricacies of places called Waterloo and Anzio. So Lewis grabbed his collection of old military books, and fled the Capitol.

Lewis surfaced in District 8, where formed the rebels' airborne battalion, and named it the "Black Devils," after a unit of commandos that one of his distant ancestors served in during a war centuries ago in another continent.

Kae Lyn and I were assigned to go with the Black Devils when they were ordered to jump out of hoverplanes and take a key bridge on a main road to the Capitol. They were told to hold the bridge for two days, until a relief force reached the position.

The assault went in with what Gus called "textbook precision." The battalion grabbed the bridge against light defense, and dug in to hold it for the requisite two days.

We held it for nine.

The Capitol sent in waves of Peacekeepers to attack. Our battalion held the best ground, and we gunned them down in vast numbers. When the attacks failed, the Peacekeepers launched new ones. Gus said the Peacekeeper tactics were reminiscent of a battle in an old war called the Somme. When those attacks failed, the Capitol tried bombardment, but that didn't work. They tried using mutts. The mutts scared the hell out of us at first, but as soon as we realized that bullets killed them too, we slaughtered the lot.

What really saved us was that the rebels had air superiority, so they were able to parachute supplies in to us. Every couple of hours, they'd parachute in food and ammunition. If we didn't get those regular drops, we would have been overwhelmed.

By day, we fought. By night, we ate, cleaned our weapons, and smelled the rank odor of cordite, smoke, and fresh corpses. Dead mutts have a very peculiar smell, cross between garlic and roses. We ate gummy rations and drank water out of our helmets from the river.

So we held the bridge. But we lost most of our men, including Gus, who was killed on the eighth day.

The next day, our ground forces hooked up with us. And Meredith Jackson helped was there. She was the one shining ray of light in the battle. And now she's gone, too.

I wrote my stories of the battle, keeping them as straight reportage, with little embellishment. The 5 W's, just like I was taught back in school. After I filed the last story, I was asked to write or tell a personal account of what I'd been through.

I have only been asked that about 500 times, in environments ranging from George Altman's office to taverns in the Districts. Everybody wants to know what happened at Lewis's Bridge. It was supposed to be a decisive battle of the war.

I don't know any survivor of Lewis's Bridge who has told their full story. We only talk about it with each other, and then elliptically.

And then we change the subject, like Kae Lyn is doing now.

"Yeah, they split us up," I say. "I have to go find the Mockingjay with Ace Archer," I say, ruefully.

"Do you know what the name 'Katniss' refers to?" Kae Lyn asks, sipping her beer.

"Not a clue. I go through the file on Monday."

"It refers to an edible aquatic plant from the genus Sagittaria," Kae Lyn says, her voice squeaking. "And Sagittaria means 'Archer.'"

I give Kae Lyn a puzzled look. "How the hell did you know that?"

"I looked it up. What do you think, I'm ignorant?" she retorts, grinning, her teeth flashing.

"Never said you were."

"You've said plenty."

"Only because you're my photographer, kiddo," I say. "So you deserve it."

"Your writing sucks, too."

We grin at each other. We have spent the last year insulting each other. It's another way we survive.

"So Mr. Altman has a bizarre sense of humor. He sends the Archer to take a photograph of the Archer," Kae Lyn says.

I slug down more of the beer. Between the beers and the shots, I'm starting to get a pleasant buzz, which is helping me cope with the death of Cornbread. I suddenly realize that I never knew his real name. My brain returns to the present, and George Altman. "That man has a vicious sense of humor," I say. "What do you know about this guy Archer?"

"Only that he's 19 years old, is a really good photographer and is full of himself, like a lot of 19-year-olds," Kae Lyn says.

Great, I think. Then I say it out loud.

Kae Lyn orders two more beers. "I need to get buzzed, too," she says. "So why did you get blessed with the Mockingjay assignment?"

I shrug. "Some guys have all the luck." The beers arrive. We hold up the bottles. "One," I say.

"Two," Kae Lyn answers back.

"Three," I say. "Wait, what are we drinking to?"

"Let's drink to founder of this fiasco," Kae Lyn says. "The Mockingjay."

Simultaneously, we knock back some beer.

"Do you think she's crazy?" I ask Kae Lyn.

"She's the reason I joined the rebellion," Kae Lyn says.

"How was that?"

"Well, I saw her in the Games, then I saw her in those segments the rebels aired on TV, and I figured that if a scrawny kid from District 12 could stand up to and defeat the Capitol and their thugs, I could do the same thing."

"You and half a million other people," I say. "But what do you think of her?"

"Me?" Kae Lyn looks up at the ceiling, trying to collect her thoughts. "I don't think she's crazy."

"You don't."

She purses her lips and shakes her head. "She might not have known what she was doing at first, but as events heated up, she began to find her own role and her own identity, and she knew what she was doing. After a while, she calculated what she was going to do, and she did it. She took control of the situation.

"Think about it. The very last public thing she did was to assassinate that double-dealer Alma Coin, in front of the whole nation. That took poise and guts."

"It prevented the Hunger Games from continuing," I say, nodding. "You don't think she was nuts when she did that?"

"She knew that the leader of the new regime was going to act like the leader of the old regime, and we'd go on and on with the nightmare forever. There was only one way to put a stop to that, and she went out and did it. Nobody else would have – or could have – pulled that off."

I ponder that for a few moments. Once again, Kae Lyn is right. Alma Coin was the leader of the rebellion, but the Mockingjay was the symbol of the rebellion. Nobody else could call Coin out and eliminate her. "The odds were in her—"

Kae Lyn cuts me off, slapping her hand over my mouth. "Please don't use that damn cliché."

I take her hand off my mouth, and grin. I don't like it much, either. But it's endemic in our nation.

"Use that cliché again and I'll have to hit you over the head with my mother's frying pan," Kae Lyn says.

I put my beer bottle down on the bar, and put out my hands in submission. "I won't do it again."

"You better not, pal," Kae Lyn says in mock reproach.

I return to the thread. "So why do you think she's holed up in District 12? If she's so calculating, she could be running the country. The whole nation is waiting for her next move."

"I think…I think Miss Everdeen is healing her wounds and waiting for the right time and the right moment to make her next move," Kae Lyn says.

I laugh. "You make her sound like a Gamemaker. Aren't you forgetting that she's 18 or 19 years old? And practically uneducated?"

Kae Lyn wags a lacquered fingernail at me. "And you are forgetting that she won a Hunger Game, destroyed a second, became the symbol of the Rebellion, and then assassinated the Rebellion's leader. If that isn't living a lifetime of experience and gaining an education, then what the hell were we doing for the past two years?"

I tap my beer bottle against Kae Lyn's glass. "You win again."

"I always do," Kae Lyn says, tossing her hair, triumphant. "I love being right all the time."

"So you think she's just biding her time."

"Yep, and when she's ready, she'll tell us all what to do. And the whole country will listen to her."

I sit quietly for a moment, absorbing that. "That's power, Kae Lyn. Real power. Control over the mind of a nation of 2.5 million people."

"And you're going to tell us what she has to say," Kae Lyn says, smiling. "I just wish I could be there to hear it myself."

"Yeah, another great exclusive for the **Panem Times**," I say. "We'll run the story in the Sunday magazine and…"

I stop dead in mid-sentence. A group of people in the toned-down suits of the new Capitol ruling elite are walking into the bar with the purposeful stride of folks who know they are in charge of everything.

Amid them is a tall black woman with light brown skin, curly natural hair, shining eyes, and a trim figure. Her hair waves over her shoulders, and she flashes a huge, winning smile to her pals.

No. It can't be.

Meredith?

Here?

"Excuse me a second," I say to Kae Lyn, and walk over to the group, which is settling in to a table. The young woman is sitting down. I stride up to her, and say, "Meredith?"

The woman looks up at me, sharply, her eyebrows furrowing, puzzled. As she does, I see that while there's a resemblance, it's not her. It's not Meredith.

"Excuse me?" the woman says.

"Excuse me," I mumble, feeling hot red burn into my face.

"Are you okay, baby," a hard male voice comes behind me. I turn around to look into the face of a black man with a goatee and a harsh look. "Is this guy bothering you?"

"I'm sorry," I burble. "I thought you – I thought she – was someone I knew."

The man nods. "Okay. No problem." He sits down next to the woman, who is giving me a fixed glare. They both are.

I put up my hands. "Sorry," I say. "Have a pleasant evening." The guy nods coolly. The woman's eyes are hot coals.

I retreat back to Kae Lyn. Her eyes are saucers. "What is with you?" she snaps.

"I thought it was Meredith," I say. I signal the bartender for another shot. Now I really want to get buzzed, having made a fool of myself. I look back at the couple, and the guy is leaning into her right ear, and she's smiling at what he's saying.

"You've got to forget about her," Kae Lyn says. "She's probably dead."

"I never saw her body," I say harshly.

"Her battalion was wiped out," Kae Lyn answers, her voice just as harsh. "She never contacted you. She's either dead or back in District 11. You have to move on."

"Like Cornbread?" I whip out. The beer is getting to me. I'm losing control. "I'm sorry," I say quietly.

"Apology accepted. And what is it with you and the sisters," she adds, her voice raising in octave.

The shot arrives and I down it. It's really kicking in now. "You grew up in District 3, Kae Lyn, right?"

"Right, and what does that have to do with the price of chickens?"

"Did you have to compete with hundreds of brawny would-be Tributes and Peacekeepers to get a date?" Before Kae Lyn can answer, I do so, feeling the rush of the liquor. "No, you guys were all technology geeks."

"I still don't understand what you're talking about."

I look down at my bottle of beer. "I developed my taste for the sisters because they were the only girls who would go out with me. And we had an interesting population demographic."

"Which was what?"

"We had twice as many black women as black men."

The singer is on a different and less sad song now. Something to do with a "city in ruins" that is rising up.

"I still don't get it," Kae Lyn says.

"You had to grow up in District 2," I say. "I'm not sure you'd understand."

"Try me," Kae Lyn fires back.

"There were just…just a lot of girls there who desperately needed boyfriends. Most girls wanted to go out with the would-be Tribute crowd. Or the military.

"There was a real hierarchy in District 2. For reasons you may guess at, sensitive writers who quoted Shakespeare weren't that popular with the super-hot blondes. And there were a lot of lonely…and beautiful…sisters. We found each other."

"Well, we didn't have issue that in District 3. I don't know what goes on in the other Districts."

"Nobody knows what goes on in the Districts. The Capitol did a good job of keeping us all divided and weak."

Kae Lyn isn't listening. She stares at the woman across the bar. Usually I know what she's thinking. This time her face is a mask. We've known each other for two years. Now I can't read her.

Then it hits me.

She's wondering why I never made a move on her. I answer the unspoken thought. "You're my best friend, Kae Lyn. And my photographer. I would never dream of wrecking that relationship. Nothing wrecks a friendship faster than love."

Kae Lyn finishes her drink and stares into the empty glass. "But did you ever want to?"

I can feel my throat go dry. "I never even thought about it, Kae Lyn."

She spins on me. "What if I was a few inches taller, had straighter hair, and had bigger boobs?" Her voice is ice.

Slowly, carefully, I say to her, putting my hands on her shoulders, "I respect you too much. Making a move on you would violate that respect that I have for you. I need you as a friend, not a lover."

There is a long and painful silence. Kae Lyn stares over one more time at the girl I have spoken to. She is digging in to fresh sturgeon and laughing at a pal's joke. Kae Lyn looks back at me, her face drained. She exhales. "Okay. As long as it isn't about the hair," she says, and breaks into a smile.

"Or the boobs," I say.

She reaches for her purse. "Let's get out of here. We have a funeral tomorrow, and then you have an appointment with the Mockingjay. We should be sober for both."

We grab our kit and wend our way out of the bar, passing the singer, who is slaking his thirst between sets. "What was that song you opened with?" I ask him.

"'Hurt,' by Trent Reznor," he says. "As arranged by Johnny Cash."

"I thought so. Good song."

"I can put it on a music chip for you," the singer says.

"Make it two," Kae Lyn says, reaching into her purse to give him her business card. "Call me at the paper."

"You got a card?" the singer asks me.

"He's going out of town," Kae Lyn says. "He has to find mockingjays."

The singer shrugs. "Nice work if you can get it," he says.

Kae Lyn and I leave the bar. Outside the night is getting cold with the sharp tang of early autumn. I hear car horns in the distance and smell the Capitol's new permanent odor of blasted buildings. It might actually be pleasant to get away from the destruction for awhile. I've been told that District 12 is full of deep forests and mountains, in a part of the country that was once called Appalachia. The trees will have perfect autumn colors, and instead of smoke rising from battered buildings, there will be fog rising from deep valleys and the tops of mountains.

I look back into the bar again, trying to find the girl who reminded me of Meredith. I want one last look, just to be sure.

Kae Lyn reads my mind. "It isn't her," she says firmly. "She's gone." She pushes me down the street. "Move along. Nothing to see here."


	3. Chapter 3

**INTERVIEW WITH THE MOCKINGJAY – Chapter 3**

The next day, Kae Lyn and I take the train out to District 7 for Cornbread's funeral. The little wooden church at the center of his town is packed – family, friends, and other "Black Devils." We're all wearing the unit's badge, a red arrowhead lapel, designed by Gus Lewis. He says it was the original "Black Devils" badge in a war they fought centuries ago.

I don't see too much of the funeral.

Instead I see flashbacks of the battle for the bridge. Waves of Peacekeepers in white uniforms are marching toward us, rifles bared, in perfect formation. They emerge from the wall behind the altar, and march in steady line over Cornbread's casket, not breaking step until we all leap up from our trench line to give them rapid fire. Our bullets rip through their armor and tear gaping holes. The Peacekeepers crumple in front of us and spurt blood all over the preacher and the front row of the church…

…and Kae Lyn yanks me back down into my seat. Someone hands me a tissue, and I dab my forehead and blow my nose.

She leans over to me, and says, "You were about to yell."

I squeeze her hand in thanks. "I was having a flashback," I say.

"I know. Try to keep up."

I pant for breath. Everybody is looking at me. "Sorry," I say. I look toward the preacher. "Please go on," I say, a little too loudly.

The preacher peers at me through his glasses, and resumes reading. "We commit the body of our brother, Lars Swenson, to Your keeping," he says.

I never knew Cornbread's real first name was Lars.

After the preacher talks, up come Cornbread's family. They fill in a lot of gaps about him. He got his nickname because as a kid, he delivered cornbread to the lumberjacks at lunchtime. He has eight brothers and sisters. None of them were ever reaped, even though they took a lot of tesserae. The youngest brother is a firefighter. The oldest sister has just been named Comptroller of the District, and Cornbread was very proud of his older sister, "the math whiz." The family are all big and blond-haired.

A nervous representative from the Capitol speaks on behalf of the Army, expressing sorrow over Cornbread's death. He says the government is quite upset over this loss of a hero, and that the new administration is moving to grant early discharges to veterans, to prevent something like this from happening again. He's so upset, he seems sincere. It's refreshing to see an official representative from the Capitol show humility and concern instead of sadism and arrogance.

A Black Devil in a ragged uniform reads the citation of Cornbread's medal for the stand at the bridge, which describes the battle precisely. I stay in the moment. I don't have another flashback.

After the burial, we all return to the town center's community hall for a repast. Kae Lyn and I sit with two other "Black Devils" – one male, one female, and the lady's spouse – and pick at our food. We all have our stories of Cornbread – or Lars – from the battle, but nobody wants to talk. He's like Banquo's ghost, all over the room.

Finally, I break the silence. "We can't all just curl up and die ourselves," I say. "Otherwise, Cornbread's life was meaningless."

"You always had a way with words, Allbright," says the male Black Devil, Mark Salmon, a stout guy with a narrow face, says. His hands are gnarled prematurely. I remember that he's from District 4. "They pay you to write clichés?" Mutual insult was a "Black Devil" hallmark from formation day to disbandment.

"That's why I'm the combat correspondent," I answer back, offering the first smile of the day.

My pebble breaks the dam. Mark points at me and says, "Remember this guy sticking his tape recorder in our faces every day during training? I said the first Peacekeeper he met face to face, he'd try to interview."

"And I almost did just that," I say. "But I shot the little bastard."

"Yeah, you got him," says Jennifer Murray, the other "Black Devil," a hard-muscled woman with thick arms and a thicker drawl. She is proof that one doesn't need to look like a Capitol fashion model to be attractive.

In her simple black dress, she looks better than she did during the battle, when she was covered with mud from tripping in a trench. She reacted at the time by showing that girls from District 10 had a very colorful vocabulary. Her black hair is draped around her shoulders, and she wears the simple arrowhead badge of the battalion on her dress as her decoration, and matching red arrowhead earrings.

Next to her is her husband, Slim, a rancher from her District, an acne-scarred man with a toothbrush moustache and a wider face. It's the first time I've met him. I knew Jennifer was married. I even know Slim's face. She carried his photograph in her right front shirt pocket all through the war. She said as long has he was next to her heart, she would never get killed. Jennifer was right.

She went to war, while he took care of the cattle. Thanks to Slim and ranchers like Slim, we had fresh corned beef in our ration packs on most days. I almost enjoyed seeing captured Peacekeeper begging us for food. They both talk in what one of my editors tells me is something called a Texas accent.

"That reminds me," Jennifer drawls, "Did you ever find that woman you were so crazy about? What was her name? Meredith?"

Kae Lyn answers. "He almost met her last night, back in the Capitol. At our favorite bar."

"Oh, I have to hear this," Jennifer says, breaking into a grin I remember from a hundred breaks in marches. "Almost met her?"

"A woman came into the bar who looked just like her, and Charlie here zoomed right over to her. And he would have started hitting on her, if…" Kae Lyn turns to me. "Should I?"

"Hey, it's your story," I say. "Go ahead."

Kae Lyn leans forward, eyes flashing. "He would have hit on her if her boyfriend didn't show up that minute."

Everybody laughs. "But it wasn't Meredith," Mark says.

"No. Close, but not her," I say.

"Now – now, I have to hear this. If the boyfriend hadn't shown up then," Jennifer asks, "Would you have tried to pick her up?"

Good question. "I don't know," I say. "But her boyfriend did show up."

"And Allbright backed off," Jennifer says loudly. "Always the gentleman! Come on, Charlie! Where's the aggressive spirit of the 'Black Devils?' Remember what Gus Lewis always said, 'Strike sure!' Make your move!"

"Well, I saw the boyfriend."

"Who the hell was he?" Mark answers. "Some Capitol jerk in a four-color suit with five-color hair?"

"No, he had a regular goatee. And a regular suit. Just a guy."

"A nobody. You could have kicked his ass and taken the girl," Mark says, grinning. "Loser."

"Hey, for all I know he might have been a commando himself," I say, enjoying the game, one of many we played. It was a simple fact that many of the big, huge, tough guys and girls who volunteered for the "Black Devils" failed to go out the door in their first parachute jump, curling up into a ball, hiding in the hoverplane, sobbing for their mothers.

"I bet he was a microchip fabricator from District 3. Probably pissed his pants looking at you," Mark says.

"Half my family makes microchips," Kae Lyn shoots back. "You want to call them wimps?"

"Hey, the real tough guys come from District 4. Not from District 3, or District 1, or especially District 2, where they all make brain-dead Peacekeepers and brainless Tributes," Mark says.

The comedic insults are flying again, as they were back in the war. The funereal atmosphere is breaking up. We're starting to recover. We start digging into our dinner. The Swensons have provided us with a buffet lunch – meatballs, chicken, and rice. We are smiling again, remembering the camaraderie and the unity of the war, pushing the horror aside. It's what we need. It's how we survive.

"So you didn't make your move, that's the bottom line," Jennifer says. "You and the sisters."

I shake my head. "It wasn't Meredith." And I wave my fork at Jennifer. "And you grew up in District 10. You didn't have a social pecking order."

"How did it work in District 2?" Slim asks.

"Okay, you had the would-be Tributes at the top. Below that you had the Peacekeepers. Below that came the merchant class, and then geeks like me."

"Yeah, but with all due respect, Charlie," Slim says, "you're a good-looking guy. I knew girls back in District 10 who went for men with brains. There was this one guy who had a book with poems by someone called William Butler Yeets…"

"Yeats, honey," Jennifer interrupts. "You're talking about Sheryl and Dave, aren't you?"

"Yeah, Yeats. Sheryl had half the guys in the District chasing her ass, and she married Dave, who looked like he could fall down in a stiff wind. There are girls who like sweet talk." He turns to Jennifer. "You're the exception, honey," he teases.

Jennifer gives him a playful punch. Slim turns back to me. "So what happened?"

"The sisters weren't getting any dates, either. There were just – a lot more of them than the brothers. So we found each other. I never looked back."

"But nothing ever permanent," Mark says. "You never found your soul mate."

"That was Meredith," I say, and look down at my rice.

Jennifer turns to her husband. "Slim, that's what I like about Charlie Allbright. He's as constant as…Charlie, what's that line?"

"'Constant as the northern star,'" I say, quoting one of my favorite Shakespeare lines.

She turns back to Slim. "Constant as the northern star. Now you'd better be the same, honey."

"You know it, Peaches," Slim says, leaning forward to kiss his wife. They lock lips passionately. The last time I did that with a woman – any woman – was with Meredith, at the bridge, of all places. Then she climbed back into her Buffalo armored fighting vehicle, and rolled off. I can see her, standing in the hatch of the Buffalo, looking back towards me as the line of vehicles drive away toward the front in the dark.

Kae Lyn is shoving me in the side. "The lady asked you a question, idiot," she says.

Jennifer repeats her question, "So what are you doing now at the paper? I read your articles about the war crimes trials every day. I can't wait until they put the Gamemakers on trial. I just know those reapings were rigged."

"Glad you get the paper out in District 10, I'll let circulation know," I say, cutting a chicken breast. "I'm not sure if I can tell you."

"Come on," Slim says. "You're among friends. The war's over. We won. It was in all the papers. No more military secrets."

"He could tell you, but then he'd have to kill you," Mark says, which generates laughter.

After a short interval, I say, "Well, I may as well bring this up anyway, because I'd like your input. I have to go and interview the Mockingjay."

There is a deadly silence at the table. "Jesus Tap-dancing Christ," Slim says. "You're going to interview Katniss Everdeen?"

"I leave for District 12 on Tuesday morning."

"For real?" Jennifer asks. "No kidding?"

"Yup. What should I ask her?" Everyone looks at me with amazement. "I'm not kidding. Let's have some ideas. You're the folks in the Districts. You tell me. What do you want to know from the Mockingjay?"

"Well, hell, I want to know if she really went into the arena pregnant," says Jennifer. "I thought that was just crazy."

"I didn't think she was really pregnant," says Slim. "She was jumping around and carrying all that gear. When my sister was pregnant, she could barely get out of bed."

"Your sister could barely get out of bed before she was pregnant," Jennifer says. "But I agree with Slim. When my mother was pregnant with my youngest brother, she got tired just doing dishes. I don't see how a pregnant woman could run around an Arena. And that's why I think those Hunger Games were rigged, to keep us obedient."

I turn to Mark. "Your turn."

Mark looks grave. He's taking this seriously. "I want to know where she learned to shoot a bow and arrow like that," he says. "And if she was crazy."

"You know what I want to know," Jennifer says, rapping the table. "Is she really in love with that boy, what's his name…Peeta. I mean, the Capitol lied so much all those years, maybe they were lying about that, too. You know, when they held up the poison berries at the end of the first games they were in, and were ready to kill themselves. For all I know, those could have been blueberries, not nightlock."

"Peaches," Slim says to his wife, "They tried to kill themselves, and if they had, the Games would have had no winner. The Capitol would have looked pretty stupid having a Hunger Games without a winner."

"Well, I was just naturally suspicious of the whole Hunger Games," Jennifer yells. "It always looked so bogus to me. I mean – and you won't mind me saying this, Charlie – every year it was some mutt from District 2 that would win the games. But you are right, how could you end a Hunger Games without a winner? That's the whole story."

"And next year, that's what they got, a Hunger Games with no winner," Mark says. "Those two lovebirds started a revolution. And here's another thing, Charlie. Why did they do it in the first place? They started a revolution for love? I mean, they started a revolution so they could get laid? That just doesn't make sense."

"Well, I don't think they intended to start a revolution," Jennifer says. "I think they just wanted to get laid, and the revolution started anyway."

"Which is why you married Slim?" I crack.

"Allbright," Jennifer says in a mocking tone, "When I went off to war, I was going to be damn sure that my Slim was wrapped around my finger." She reaches out to grab his hand, and their fingers entwine. "I made sure my boy was locked up tight. You should have done the same with Meredith!"

I wince. Jennifer has hit me with an unpleasant truth. I didn't lock up Meredith. "Can we stick with the Mockingjay?" I ask.

"Sorry, Charlie," Jennifer says. "You know I like pulling your chain. Always have. You make it too easy. But I agree with Mark – the revolution would have happened anyway."

"Face it," Slim says, "Everybody in the Districts – well, at least our District – was pissed off at 75 years of eating crap from President Snow and having to pretend it was prime rib. That's another thing I want to know, Charlie. Just how bad was it in District 12? Since I started meeting people from other Districts, everybody says their District had it the worst from the Capitol."

By now, I have my notebook out, and I am scribbling down questions. The Mockingjay is the biggest figure in the nation, and nobody knows who she really is.

Kae Lyn looks at me with a silly smile while Jennifer strides over to another table to get more opinions, yelling in her brassy voice, "Who wants to ask questions about Katniss Everdeen? Charlie Allbright has to go interview her this week!"

"What?" I say to Kae Lyn. She's reading my mind again.

"What's that line you like from '**Julius Caesar**?'" She says, cupping her jaw in her left hand.

"I like a lot of lines from that play."

"When Marc Antony sends his countrymen off to attack Brutus and the other conspirators. You used it all the time."

I don't even have to think. "'Mischief, thou art afoot. Take thou what course thou wilt.'"

Three "Black Devils" rush up to me, all stout, muscled men, bursting with questions. "Is Katniss Everdeen really the Mockingjay or was that a TV special effect?"

"How did she get away with killing President Coin?"

"How the hell did she bring down a Capitol hoverplane with just a fucking bow and arrow?"

Kae Lyn laughs. "You're going to be the man of the hour now, pal." She resumes eating her rice. The mood in the room is definitely improving.

I peer over at the Swenson family at their big table. The army of Swensons are eating their food, too. They have a long road ahead of them, but they are starting to recover. Too bad Cornbread isn't here to see it.

On the train going back to the Capitol, I read the day's paper. Kids sell it on the trains. There's a story about a major theft of firearms from a former Peacekeeper barracks in District 1.

I point it out to Kae Lyn. "That's odd," I say. "I thought those barracks were pretty secure. This must be an inside job."

She peers over at the story. "No, there are still some problems," she says. "A reporter on the national desk was telling me that there are still a lot of Peacekeeper barracks that haven't been properly secured yet. There were just so many of them. They had to secure the nuclear weapons first."

The story says that the Police are still inventorying the losses, but it looks to be high-performance firepower…automatic weapons, anti-tank missiles, body armor, hand grenades. I share that with Kae Lyn.

"Who do you think might have done this," Kae Lyn asks.

"You don't use an anti-tank missile to bring down a deer, so it's not hunters. Probably pro-Capitol guerrillas."

"Caesar Flickerman," Kae Lyn says, her voice cold.

"What? Caesar Flickerman broke into a barracks? That walking megaphone? In his light-up suit? With his pompadour? That brainless jerk couldn't lead a raid on a bordello."

"Maybe he inspired some people to do it," Kae Lyn says, her voice hushed.

I feel a chill in my stomach. "You could be right at that. Just what we needed, a new guerrilla war."

"Actually, I think the term is counter-revolution," Kae Lyn says. She stares out the window at the mountainous terrain passing by. We'll be back in the Capitol in half an hour.

I shut the paper and hold it. "I've had enough bad news for one day. Are you all right?"

"Better than I was this morning. And better than last night."

"Yeah." I rub my forehead. "I'm beat."

Kae Lyn keeps staring out the window. I smack my paper on the seat next to me. "I forgot!" I bark.

Kae Lyn doesn't turn her head. "Forgot what?"

"Forgot to ask any of the other guys if they heard anything about Meredith."

Kae Lyn keeps staring out the window. "I didn't forget," she says quietly. "I asked some of the guys." She looks at me with sad eyes. "The answer was no. She was last seen driving off down that road."

She reaches out to grab my hands. "I'm sorry, Charlie. But I think you have to accept it. Her battalion was almost completely wiped out. Worse than ours. She's probably gone. You have to move on."

I drop my head. "Maybe you're right," I say. "It's just so hard to accept."

"We both accepted the loss of Cornbread pretty effectively today."

"That's because we had closure," I answer.

"Not everything in life gets closed," Kae Lyn says. "You have to live with that. It was a horrible war. The good news is that it's probably the last one."

I look into her eyes. "You're right all the time," I say.

She smiles. "I love being right all the time."

I give her a hug. Sorry, Kae Lyn. I love you with all my heart, but I'll never be your lover.

When I return to my apartment, the message light on my answering machine is flashing. I'm hoping the paper isn't calling me in for some fresh disaster, but it's just Daddy. He calls regularly. With Mommy dead seven years from breast cancer, and me in the war, he reaches out. But he still keeps the distance. It's hard to deal with.

"I'm glad you called," I tell him. "I have to go out of town on an assignment, so I won't be able to phone you too easily."

"Where are you going?" Daddy asks.

"District 12," I say, casually. "I have to find the definitive needle in the haystack. Katniss Everdeen."

Long silence at the other end of the line. I take my cordless phone and walk out onto the apartment balcony. Capitol City is fully lit, which by postwar standards is very restrained. No garish colors and tones any more. At 15 stories up, the air doesn't stink of wrecked buildings, and there is a fresh breeze from the nearby mountains.

"Daddy, are you there?"

"You're going to interview the Mockingjay?" He sounds genuinely surprised.

"The one and only."

Another long silence. I lean over the balcony, and can hear voices in the street. Colleagues at the paper who don't know me too well often ask why I don't bring girls up to the apartment.

Finally, Daddy speaks. "She started the war, you realize," he says, in a pedantic voice.

"I'm very aware of that, Daddy," I say. He's warming up to a point. The silence at the other end of the line resumes.

Then Daddy says, in a strained voice, "I served in District 12 for a while."

It's the first time he's ever said anything about his service to me. I stand up straight on my balcony, shocked. "When? What did you do? Did you know her?" I blurt out.

"I didn't know her," he says. "I'm pretty sure I transferred out of there before she was born. "But I knew her family. And her boyfriend's, what's his name…"

"Peeta Mellark," I say. I trot back inside, grab a notebook out of my desk, and start scribbling one-handed. "You knew his family."

Long silence. "Yes. I knew his family. Before he was born. They ran a bakery."

I scribble the notes down.

"It was a good bakery," he says. "They made the most delicious breads and cakes. I guess it's gone now."

"My understanding is that the District was bombed to hell at the outbreak of the war," I say. "I'm getting a full briefing on Monday morning."

"That's good."

I lean forward on the sofa. "Look, Daddy, if you know anything about these people…"

He cuts in. "I don't want to talk about it any further."

I can feel his presence in the apartment. I can see the checked shirt, and hear him idly whacking his golf club against his leg, see the sadness in his eyes. "Okay, Daddy. I understand."

"When you come back, tell me how it goes."

"I will." Then I think of something. "Listen, Daddy, I'm asking people what questions they'd want to ask the Mockingjay. Trying to get a sense of what the public wants to know, before I go in and talk to her."

"So you're asking me what I would like to ask the Mockingjay?" Daddy answers, his voice constricted.

"Exactly."

There is another long silence at the end of the line. Then, "Ask her and Peeta to forgive me."

"Forgive you? Forgive you for what?"

"Just ask them to forgive me." Then he blurts out, "Look, son, it's getting late. I'm going to hit the sack. Call me when you get back. Good night, Charlie. I love you."

"I love you, too, Daddy," I say.

The phone goes dead.

I hold it out from me. I have just had the most meaningful conversation about my father's career that I have ever had in my entire life, and it lasted a minute and a half.

I walk back out on the balcony and stare out at the stars for the longest time. District 12, the mystery district. They used to joke about it being a "roach motel," where people went in and never came out. Or came out as freight cars full of coal.

I have to figure this place out. It's my job.

No. Now it's becoming more than my job. It's becoming like a vortex, sucking me in.

"I hope to Christ I don't get any more surprises out there," I mutter. "I just want to do my job."


	4. Chapter 4

**INTERVIEW WITH THE MOCKINGJAY – Chapter Four**

Monday dawns cool and crisp, perfect running weather. After my morning run, shower, and breakfast, I leave instructions for Calpurnia on tending the apartment while I'm gone, and head for the paper, to get briefed on the Mockingjay and District 12, and to meet Ace Archer.

I find him already at my desk, sitting in my chair, booted feet up on my desk. His jet-black hair is swept over his tanned forehead, and he is wearing blue jeans, checked shirt, and the usual photographer's vest. I can't tell, but I'm pretty sure he's taller than me, and more muscled.

Just to be more irritating, he's holding and studying the photograph of Meredith that Kae Lyn took at the bridge, when she arrived in her Buffalo to relieve our position. It's my favorite photograph of her. She's standing on top of her armored fighting vehicle, wearing a green tanker's suit, headphones around her neck. She's just taken the hairpins out of her hair, and she has a saucy, triumphal expression on her face. In a moment, she's about to see me, and leap off the vehicle into my arms, knocking us both into the mud.

I yank the photograph out of Archer's hand. "Next time you play with stuff on my desk, ask my permission," I snarl. Not the most diplomatic way to begin my relationship with my photographer, but that photograph is sacred to me. "And get your boots off my desk."

"Sorry, man," Archer says, his bronzed face turning red. "I been waiting 45 minutes." He takes the boots off my desk, and vacates the chair.

"That's better," I say, and take my chair back, and point at another one. "Grab a seat. Charlie Allbright."

"Ace Archer," he says, taking the chair and extended a hand. I observe a tattoo on his wrist. I can't make it out. "Who is that fox? Your girlfriend?" he asks.

This guy will win no prizes for diplomacy, I think. But he will be at my side for up to a month, so I had better learn to get along with him. "Sort of," I say.

He grins wolfishly. "Sort of? Is she your fuck buddy?"

I give him a death-stare.

"Sorry," he says, edging back. "Look, I'm kinda blunt. It's just who I am. I say what I think. Sometimes it's good, sometimes it's bad." He shrugs. "It's just Ace being Ace."

"She's not my fuck-buddy," I say, my voice hard.

Ace looks up at the ceiling, around in circles, clearly aware that he's irritating me beyond belief. "Lookit, I'm really fucking up here right now, and I don't mean to. I heard you were a war vet and all, and I thought, well…fuck, I don't know what I thought."

"You thought I was some kind of rough-and-tumble guy, the kind who shoots pool, knocks back beer, and loves them and leaves them," I say.

Archer grins sheepishly. "Yeah, I guess so. They told me you were a 'Black Devil,' and those guys have some rep." He points at the little red arrowhead magnet attached to my computer terminal. "I wanted to be one of those guys."

"There aren't many left," I say. I put Meredith's photograph reverently back in its place on my desk. "Look, let's start over. I'm Charlie Allbright."

Archer grins again. "I'm Ace Archer, your new photographer."

"Where you from, soldier," I say, repeating a phrase from a hundred wartime interviews.

"District 1. But I lived in the Capitol."

I blurt out, "How the hell did a guy from the Districts get to live in the Capitol without having his tongue ripped out by the Peacekeepers?"

Archer leans back in his chair. "I had a gig taking photographs and video of Capitol big shots on group tours at Hunger Games arenas," he says, smiling, his chewing gum moving around his mouth. "I started doing that when I was 17, and a bunch of high rollers from the Capitol put up the dough to move me up here."

In spite of his crass nature, I'm interested. "How did that work out?"

"Well, these rich assholes love to go out to Hunger Games arenas on group tours and re-enact scenes from their favorite Games. And I'd go along and do the photographs and videography. It was good times, man. They paid well, they tipped well, and the girls…well, let's just say the girls fucked well."

I laugh in spite of myself. Most of the paper's photographers have little trouble finding girlfriends. But Archer seems to have taken it to a higher level. And it's interesting how much energy the Capitol's residents put in to gloating over and remembering Hunger Games gone by. They were so obsessed with them, they began to neglect holding on to their empire. Maybe that's why the Peacekeepers were such a lousy army, I think, even if they had brave soldiers and overbearing cops.

"So what did you do during the war?" I ask.

Archer's face falls. Clearly this is a source of embarrassment. "I wasn't in the fucking war. I didn't want to join the Peacekeepers, and I couldn't join the rebels."

"Because you were here in the Capitol."

"Right," Archer nods. "They didn't draft me, because even with the war on, the rich guys were still going on their Hunger Games tours. I was out at some Arena – I don't remember which one, taking photographs, when the tour operator comes up to us and says, 'Hey, this tour's over. We've just been put out of business. The government has fallen. We're going back to the Capitol right now. Drinks are on the house.'"

"Well, at least you got free liquor on the trip home," I say, trying to connect to the young man.

"That was the only good thing that came out of it. When I got home, I had an apartment and no job. One of my girls told me that the paper was completely re-staffing, so I came here. Been working here ever since." He grins again. "Still got the babes, though."

I ponder his words for a moment. He's still finding his way in the world and life. "So you pretty much missed the war," I say. "What do you know about the Hunger Games?"

"Fuck, man, I loved them!" he bursts. "Shit, I wanted to be in them! I thought it was the ultimate high for action. But they never called me! Every time they held the Reaping, some other asshole would beat me to it." He shakes his head. "I never got into the shit," he says morosely.

I haven't seen anybody this anxious to get into a fight since the rebellion started.

"You were in the shit, right?" Archer asks. "I see your 'Black Devil' pin. Man, what's it like?"

What's it like? It's like the flashback that is ensuing. It's not the bridge this time, it's a time we were ambushed on a patrol in a forest, with Peacekeepers shooting at us from the front and mortar fire in the rear. I can hear the mortar rounds going off behind me and see the Peacekeepers firing a machine-gun back at me. Jennifer and I are shooting back, and then the two of us are running like hell, zigzagging past the craters caused my the mortar rounds to get us the hell away from there and –

"I said, what's it like, man?" Archer asks again.

The flashback ends. I gasp for breath. "It's an experience," I finally say, looking at the floor.

"Must be intense."

"Yeah," I say. I have to change the subject. "So you liked the Hunger Games," I say.

"I thought it was the ultimate."

"Most of the guys I knew back in District 2 felt the same way," I say. "What do you know about Katniss Everdeen?"

"Only that she went fucking nuts," Archer says. "And she's a hell of a shot with a bow and arrow. 10 yards away, firing upstairs, and Pow!" He smacks his right fist into his left hand. "She kills that bitch Coin dead with one arrow. Damn…I mean, talk about accuracy."

"Do you know what our assignment is?"

"Yeah, they told me. Interview with the Mockingjay. Go out to District 12, grill her, get some photographs, head back to town. No sweat."

I'm amazed. "You think it's that easy?"

"Dude, this girl is my age, and she's crazy. She probably wants to tell her story. She needs to tell her story. Because nobody listens to crazy people."

For a moment, I want to yell at him, but then it occurs to me, Archer might be right. Crazy people need audiences. Maybe Archer's not as dumb as he looks.

"Okay," I say. "But I do the interviewing here. You shoot the pictures."

"You got it, dude." Another big grin, and a snap of the gum. "So where are you from? If you don't mind me asking?"

"District 2," I say.

"Wow, that District saw a lot of shit. It was pretty intense there. You used to have a lot of winners, too. I heard they built an annex to the Victor's Village."

"We had two of the damn things," I say.

"I take it you didn't like the Games much."

I had put up with idiot would-be Tributes like you using me as a punching bag, I think, biting my lip to avoid saying it.

"Not a fan," is all I say.

"Well, you saw the real shit," Archer says. "The Hunger Games were just a game."

"With children being sent to kill each other and die, and a whole society brutalized," I answer.

"It was only 24 kids out of what – a million? And in most Districts, they had volunteers lining up to get in the Arena," Archer says. "Survival of the fittest. How about that for a message?"

"You two can debate this later," growls the voice of Harry Byrne, chief of the copy desk, who has come over from his semi-circle of computers. Tall, thickly moustached, graying, Byrne and his copy editors sort out our stories, slap headlines on them, and send them to print. "You're wanted in the video room. Now."

Harry is another bulldozer, but he's paid to be one. He has to grind the paper out every night. Talk to him on duty, he's a tank who will not brook arguments on the English language. Talk to him off-duty, he's a charming wine connoisseur. It's just too bad that Panem has such lousy wine.

Archer and I rise from our chairs and troop into a conference room where George Altman and our national editor, Naomi Chamberlain, a redhead with huge glasses, await us. George points at a stack of folders and DVDs on the desk. "This is our file on District 12, Katniss Everdeen, and our DVDs of her appearances. I think we should go over them before you head out there tomorrow."

"Sounds sensible," I say. Archer and I plop down in chairs opposite the big-screen TV. George shoves folders and cups of orange juice at us. Everybody has a coffee mug or orange juice. We need some donuts, I think idly. Or bagels. For the sugar rush.

Katniss takes up two folders herself, mostly from pre-war copies of the **Times**. "A lot of that stuff is practically useless," George says. "It was written by the pre-war government's handpicked liars."

I open the folders and start wading through the stories and pictures. They're in chronological order. Katniss Everdeen. Dark hair, braided, gray eyes, thin and clearly undernourished. Shots of her as the "girl on fire," riding in the chariot at the opening ceremonies of the 74th Hunger Games. A blond-haired boy with wide, sad, eyes next to her. They are waving at the fans.

"Nice horses," Naomi says. On Sundays, she goes riding in a park. The Capitol has everything to entertain its citizenry. Just a lot less of it than before.

"That must be Peeta Mellark," Archer says, pointing him out. "Her boyfriend."

"That's one of the questions we have to track down," George says. "There was a Peacekeeper report that after Katniss got back from the 74th Hunger Games, she was not seen with Peeta very often, but was observed hunting in the woods near the District with another guy." He opens another file folder, and reveals a photograph of the dark-haired, grim-looking young man. "This fellow."

I look at the photograph. "That's Gale Hawthorne," I say. "He's a colonel in District 2. In charge of the new airmobile regiment they're creating."

George nods. "Right first time."

"How'd you know that," Archer asks, his face quizzical.

"I read our own paper, dummy," I snap. I give George a hard look. Why are you sticking me with this idiot?

"Later," George says. "The thing is, Katniss said in interviews at the time that Hawthorne is her cousin." He flips out more photographs, including one of Gale kissing Katniss smack on the lips.

"Well, I've been kissing my cousin for 40 years, and I never did it like that," Naomi says, looking at the photographs.

"District 12…it had 8,000 people…no connection with the rest of the nation, who the hell knows what goes on there?" Harry asks rhetorically.

"You're saying they're all inbred," I say.

"Well, it's 8,000 people," Harry says. "We're not talking about a huge gene pool here."

"And it's down to less than a thousand now," George says. "And the District's records went to shit when the Capitol bombed them to shit. But this is something we have to track down. We have to know if the Peeta-Katniss relationship was real or a set-up."

"Why do we have to know that, precisely?" Naomi asks.

"Because if they were doing everything they did to get laid or doing everything they did to start a revolution is the big question," I say, thinking back to the funeral repast, and the questions from Jennifer and Slim.

"This whole thing is a mess," George continues. "During the war, Peeta was a prisoner of the Capitol, and they tortured him into being some kind of drone and slave."

He walks around the table to another file folder. "These are some preliminary interviews we've done with some people who were involved in their activities. Most of them are from District 13."

"Which makes them anal assholes," I say. "And probably not willing to say anything good about someone who whacked their beloved President Coin."

"Precisely," George says. "But they do indicate that Peeta was seriously tortured and needed a lot of therapy and medication to get his brains sorted out. So that's another issue."

I start scribbling notes. I'll make an aide-memoir later. "What do we have on District 12?" I ask.

"It was a hole," George says. "Now it's an even bigger hole. The government is pressing hard on rebuilding it first, using it as a beta site for other rebuilding efforts. The permanent population numbers less than 1,000. The much larger transient population consists of construction workers from all the other districts working there. Because the mayor was killed in the attacks, the government has appointed a temporary Commissioner, Ron Davis, until they can hold an election for mayor. It's all coal mines and forests. And they don't like outsiders much."

"I can't blame them. Who can we interview from Katniss's inner circle that's outside District 12?" I ask.

"Nobody," George answers crisply. "We asked her mother in District 4, Gale Hawthorne in District 2, and Johanna Mason in District 7. They are all united. They won't talk unless Katniss does. It's the anvil chorus. You open up Katniss, they'll open up."

This story is getting more annoying by the minute. "Let's get back to the chronology," I say. "So Katniss was the girl on fire when she got rolled out at the 74th games." I flip through the stories. "Her costume was designed by this guy, Cinna. What happened to him?"

"Dead," George says. "Killed by the Peacekeepers. We're not sure when."

"Well, there goes that interview," I say, with a sigh. "Moving right along. Then she gets a…what the hell…she rated an '11' on the scoring?"

"No shit," Archer says, grabbing the clipping out of my hand. "She got a fucking 11? Jesus, that's incredible! Nobody gets more than a 10!"

"How did you miss that achievement," Naomi asks. "You're the biggest fan of the Games on the paper."

"I was doing a shoot during the 74th Games," he says. "I think on the site of the 68th. Or maybe the 59th. I don't remember. These jobs all kind of flowed together," he says, not looking up. "But I remember the 74th Games, because I missed most of the action. I only saw the last few days."

"Okay," George says, continuing. "So Katniss Everdeen goes into the arena with a score of 11. We'll look at the tape for the highlights. Peeta announces before the whole nation, God, and President Snow that he's madly in love with the girl, and the crowd goes wild. Nobody wants to see them both die."

"So the Gamemakers changed the rules," I say. "First time ever, I believe."

"I didn't know the Hunger Games had any rules," Harry says.

"They pretty much don't," Archer says. "You can't step off those circles for 60 seconds, and there's no cannibalism. Other than that, the Tributes are on their own, and the Gamemakers can do what they want."

We all stare at Archer. "You know your Hunger Games," George says.

Archer smiles again. "I always wanted to be a Tribute, boss."

George looks down at his folders again. "Okay, so the Games go off, Katniss and Peeta hook up, yadda yadda yadda, the other Tributes all meet various gory fates that we shall soon see in full color, then the Gamemakers bring the last three together and jump them with these mutts. The last Tribute to fall is the mongoloid from District 2…" George looks up. "Jesus, Charlie, I'm sorry about that. Did you know Cato?"

Cato? He's the last Tribute who was killed in that particular set of games. "Well, he's 10 years younger than me, so obviously we didn't go to school together."

"I think what George is asking is did you ever interview the guy?" Harry says, sounding irritated. "Nobody thinks you're that young."

"Yeah, I probably did interview the guy," I say. "Do you need the story?"

"Probably not," Naomi says. "Let's skip on down."

George resumes going through the stories. "So just as Cato dies, Peeta loses a leg, and the Gamemakers decide to change the rules again and go back to only one winner, for an incredible 30 seconds."

"And the question is why," I say.

"Exactly," says George. "And Seneca Crane isn't here to explain it to us, unfortunately."

"No loss," says Harry flatly.

George continues. "Peeta and Katniss do the his-and-hers nightlock scene. We have to know if they really meant it or if that was a bluff, and why. At which point, the Gamemakers go into a major panic at the thought of having a Hunger Games and no winner, and for the one and only time in Panem's history, we have two Hunger Games winners."

"Which infuriates the Panem leadership beyond measure, because the poorest District in the whole nation has just given the finger to President Snow and his merry band of cutthroats," I say.

"You could write this shit," Archer says.

"I do, pal," I answer, and for the first time there is a bond between us. Not a big one, but a real one.

George resumes his narrative. "Peeta and Katniss get repaired, Peeta gets a prosthetic leg, they go home, everybody's happy, and life goes on for a few months with our sweethearts occupying separate homes in District 12's Victor's Village." George looks up. "Meaning they get their first homes with hot water and central heating in their lives."

"Hang on a second," Harry says. "Wasn't there a Mentor to these kids? A guy named Haymitch Abernathy?"

"Yeah," George says, flipping open another folder. There's no way I can read all these stories. I'm glad George is giving the short version of events. "A walking bottle of Chivas Regal. He gets hooked in with the Rebellion later, but during the 74th, he got the kids the supplies they needed."

"Sponsors," Archer says. "The better the show you give in the Arena, the more sponsor money and support you get."

"So Peeta and Katniss are back home in District 12, and according to the Peacekeeper reports, they are not, repeat not, lovers. In fact, they barely talk to each other. Katniss is seen hunting in the woods with Gale Hawthorne," George continues.

"Then Katniss and Peeta go on the Victory Tour. And everywhere they go, they draw huge crowds of people, who see them as the champions who stuck it to the Capitol."

"And that's when the rebellions started," I say.

"It was like they left a trail of powder," Naomi says. "Everywhere they went, disorder and fighting followed right after. District 8 exploded."

"At this point, President Snow realizes that he has to get rid of these lovebirds to manifest the Capitol's absolute power. So he announces that Peeta and Katniss are getting married. Two minutes later, he announces the Quarter Quell, the 75th Annual Games, to be a reunion of former Tributes," George continues.

"Which was absolutely brilliant," I say. "It says that even if you're a winner, you're not safe from being slaughtered. Nobody in Panem outside of the Capitol can avoid being horribly murdered. Every single person in the nation, including Hunger Games winners, lives at Snow's whimsy. And he can send both Peeta and Katniss to their deaths, with the whole country enjoying the show."

"So Miss Everdeen goes into the trials and somehow gets a score of '12,'" George continues.

"That I remember," Archer says. "We were watching that at my shop. I couldn't believe it. It was like the first time ever that someone rated a '12.'"

"We have to find out how she rated a '12,'" Harry says. "We could interview the living Gamemakers."

George shakes his head. "They're awaiting trial. All behind bars. It'll be months before they even start the prosecution."

"Maybe we can go through their lawyers," Naomi says. "This doesn't affect their cases. They're not being tried for how they voted in those presentations."

"No, that won't work," I say. "There was a rat's nest of corruption and payoffs at the ministry level trials, which I covered. I'm sure they were greasing palms at the Gamemaker level. How they arrived at their ratings is probably sealed evidence. I mean, I can ask my sources in the prosecutor's office, but they're going to come back with the same thing I just told you."

George flicks his eyes at us. The only sound is the hum of the air-conditioning. "Naomi, get someone to check that line, just to cover the betting. It's just a few phone calls."

Naomi scribbles her own notes. George goes back to his folders. "Okay, on with the tale. The highlights of the Quarter Quell pre-game show were three: Katniss leaped up and showed off an outfit that made her into a Mockingjay, Peeta announced that Katniss was pregnant, and all the Tributes stood up and united hands in a show of victor solidarity."

"That's quite a trifecta," I say. "That did a lot to stir up the rebellion. Even in the Capitol, people were enraged at them sending a pregnant girl into the arena to die."

"There's an interesting problem with that, though," George says. "No baby."

"Well, the rebels announced she miscarried," Naomi says. "From the stress and exertion."

"Let's be sure of that, shall we?" George asks. He looks down at his notes. "Finally, when they play the anthem, all the Tributes rise and hold hands together in a demonstration of unity, and the Capitol immediately yanks the ceremony off the air, and never replays it."

"No surprise there," I say.

George moves on. "The 75th Hunger Games start in a jungle with the Cornucopia sitting in the middle of an island-like formation with 12 spokes of land. Katniss and Peeta form an alliance with…" George struggles with his piles of paper. "What's this name? Finnick Odair. District 4." He hands us a photograph. He's bronze-haired, handsome, 24.

"They also ally with the 80-year-old crone Mags from the same district," George continues.

"Putting an 80-year-old woman in the arena," Harry says, shaking his head.

"I think there are some ancient legends about overweening arrogance leading to a fall," I say. "The term is called hubris."

"Let's keep up with modern history," George says. "The four of them head into the jungle, battle a force field, search for water, and fight off various assaults. First there was lightning, then some kind of blistering fog, and the 80-year-old woman walks right into it to avoid burdening the others."

"That was noble of her," I say. "Must have been some kind of chemical agent."

"Our heroes flee the fog, get into the salt water, and then get attacked by killer monkeys," George continues.

"More mutts," I say.

"Then they get hit by a tidal wave, and get joined by Johanna Mason, the District 7 Tribute, and the two Tributes from District 3, Wiress and Beetee. So we have a little team here."

"You know, I remember watching the 75th Games closely," Archer says. "Did anyone notice the geometry of the Arena?"

We all stare uncomprehendingly at the photographer. He reaches for a notebook, and says, "Look, I saw it at the time." He starts sketching in the notebook. "The Cornucopia is the center. There were 12 spokes. The arena was designed like a clock. It did lightning at midnight and noon, Blood at 1, Rain at 2, fog at 3, and tidal waves at 10. And each of these attacks came in the appropriate spoke of the clock."

"Damn clever," Harry says. "But that makes it predictable. Who dreamed up the 75th Hunger Games?"

"The eminent Plutarch Heavensbee," I say. "Who is now Secretary of Communications. So maybe he rigged this particular Hunger Games in a different way, to set the ending he wanted."

"Well, then, we should interview Plutarch," Archer says.

Naomi laughs. "The Secretary of Communications is not going to tell us how he orchestrated the Rebellion. He's a manipulative bastard, and he keeps his own secrets. Besides, if he ever tells his story, it'll be to his own TV network."

"The next horror the Gamemakers visit on our crew are jabberjays that sound like people emotionally close to the members," George says.

Archer looks down at his little chart. "That's the 4 o'clock attack," he says.

"Then they got some supplies, loaves of bread, and I think Peeta and Katniss had a romantic moment," George continues. "Then the group sets up a wire trap of some kind, and the Career Tributes from District 2 attack our crew."

"It got very wild there," Archer says. "Johanna attacked Katniss, but didn't kill her. Then she got attacked, and stood up, and shot her arrow right at the arena's force field. I remember that, because the broadcast ended right then. Everybody in the Capitol wondered what the hell was going on."

"I think everyone in Panem was wondering what was going on," I say. "After that, the Districts exploded."

"And then it gets even stranger," George says. "The next time we see Katniss, she's doing those propaganda shots for the rebellion from District 8, basically daring the government to come and get her."

"So one minute she's in the 75th Hunger Games, the next minute she's shaking hands with the wounded and denouncing the Capitol for rebel television."

"And we have no idea of her story on how she got from the explosion in the arena to District 8. We do know that Peeta was captured by the Capitol, and gave an interview in which he said the escape was caused by a conspiracy involving some of the other Tributes, which led to the great escape," George says. "If that's what happened."

"Peeta made broadcasts calling for a cease-fire and warning that the Capitol would attack District 13," I say. "You're suggesting that the Capitol messed up his mind."

"I can't trust any Capitol broadcast," George says. "It sounds logical that the rebels organized the escape, but we have to check this out."

As he is about to read the rest of his material, there is a knock on the door, and George's secretary enters the room wordlessly, handing him a message. George reads it, and turns pale. "We have to cut this short…Charlie, you and Ace can look at the rest of this material by yourselves."

"What's going on, George?" I ask.

"There's been an incident in District 1. A police car with four cops in it was on patrol, and it got blown up by an anti-tank missile. They think it was one of the missiles that was stolen over the weekend," George says. He hands the message to Naomi. "Pull Kae Lyn off the Flickerman hunt. Hook her up with one of your crime reporters and get them out there. I want this covered comprehensively."

"Do you want me to go out to District 1?" I ask George.

He shakes his head. "You two are on a train tomorrow at noon to District 12. Start looking at these tapes." He shoves a stack of tapes at us.

The three editors rise and leave the room to work on the story, leaving Archer and me alone with the stacks of tapes and file folders.

Archer picks at the folders. "Do you want to go through the rest of this paperwork?"

"I need a mental break from all this paper," I say. "There's too damn much of it. We need her story, not what people have written about her."

Archer strides across to the TV and tosses a tape in the player. "Let's go to the videotape," he says.

He flips the switch, and the tape rolls out. It hasn't been cued up right, and it opens not to the "girl on fire" that started the whole Katniss craze, but to Katniss crooning a lullaby to a dying little black girl in the woods.

"I didn't know she could sing," Archer says.

I look at papers in one of the folders. The girl must be Katniss's pal Rue, the District 11 girl. They formed a short-lived alliance. Katniss is surrounding her frail body with wildflowers.

Archer chomps on his gum and grins at me. "Too young for you," he says.

"Fuck you," I say, not seriously. For some reason, I'm not offended. He just wants to butt heads. Maybe I can survive with him.


	5. Chapter 5

**INTERVIEW WITH THE MOCKINGJAY – CHAPTER 5**

With the editors gone, Archer and I break for lunch. When we return to the video room, we review the tapes. Katniss being interviewed. The highlights of the 74th Hunger Games. Archer reacts to it as if it's live and in progress. "Look at that guy go," he yells, pointing at Cato as he slices up Tributes at the Cornucopia in the first few minutes.

I've seen enough gore for one lifetime. I fast-forward through the battle scenes. Then we look at the Mockingjay's propaganda segments, some of which I've also seen in training and base camps.

There she is, in her armored uniform, bow and arrow at her side, in District 8, filled with fury. "President Snow says he's sending us a message? Well, I have one for him. You can torture us and bomb us and burn our districts to the ground, but do you see that?" The camera shifts to a wrecked Capitol plane. "Fire is catching! And if we burn, you burn with us!"

"Very powerful," I say.

"Yeah," Archer answers. "She may not scare the audience, but she scares the hell out of me."

I remember Gus Lewis using that quote once, attributing it to some famous general from history.

A knock at the door: Kae Lyn peers in. "Can I come in?"

"Aren't you going to District 1?" I ask. "Come on in."

"The train doesn't leave until this evening," she says, sashaying into the room. She plunks herself down in a chair next to me, and waves a greeting at Archer. "Hi, Ace."

"We're watching some of the Mockingjay's propaganda pieces," I say.

"I remember them," she says. "I think this is the one she did in District 12."

On the screen, Katniss stands in the ruins of her old house, staring up at the sky. The tape jump-cuts to her walking through the ashes and ruins.

"Look at that," Kae Lyn says, pointing at the screen. "Decomposing bodies. Nobody cleaned them up."

"The Capitol was sending a message," I say. "You remember something Gus said once? 'The Capitol waged this whole war in terms of propaganda.'"

"I remember him saying that," Kae Lyn says, her weaved hair bobbing as she nods. "Their strategy was entirely based on psychological intimidation of us. They didn't use much military sense."

"Are you talking about Augustus Lewis," Archer asks. "I heard about him. They tell me he was an incredible guy."

For a moment, I have a flashback of Lewis. Stocky, moustached, short, ferocious. He would walk slowly through Peacekeeper fire, to show his contempt for the enemy.

"He was a character," I say, as Katniss's image is replaced on the screen by Gale Hawthorne silently striding through the remains of his house. The style is similar. "He knew how to lead people."

Archer's voice drops a decibel level. "Were you there, too? At the bridge?" he asks Kae Lyn.

"I was there, too," Kae Lyn says evenly.

"What was it like," Archer says, his voice pleading.

I'm going to be stuck with this guy for a week, maybe two, maybe a month, on this bloody assignment. I can't even open up my father about the war, and this 19-year-old kid wants to hear about it? What do I tell him? Maybe I can disabuse him of the idea that it was fun.

"It stank," I say. "It smelled of mud, filthy people, cordite, and unburied corpses." It's the first time I've described the bridge to an outsider since I wrote my story about it.

Archer chomps on his gum, slowly. He wasn't expecting that.

The silence in the room is broken by, of all things, Katniss Everdeen singing. On the tape, she's standing in some woods, singing a strange song:

"Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where they strung up a man they say murdered three.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."

We watch the tape. Katniss continues to sing the song, with mockingjays providing a backup.

"Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where the dead man called out for his love to flee.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."

"That makes no sense," Kae Lyn says. "What's going on here? What's she singing about?"

I scribble in my pad. "Here's another exciting line of inquiry," I say.

"She can sing pretty well," says Kae Lyn, the music fan.

Katniss continues. Her voice is sweet and clear.

"Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Where I told you to run, so we'd both be free.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."

"This is weird," Archer says. "She's singing about a hanged murderer wanting his lover to join him." The kid is smarter than he looks, I think.

"Are you, are you

Coming to the tree

Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me.

Strange things did happen here

No stranger would it be

If we met up at midnight in the hanging tree."

"Maybe she is nuts," I say.

"I don't remember ever seeing this," Kae Lyn says. I reach for the list of tape segments and scan down it.

"There's a good reason for that…they didn't air it. This section is raw, unedited footage."

"Good thing they didn't air it," Kae Lyn says. "It's creepy."

"Fucking bizarre," Archer says.

I return to the pile of paper that George has left behind. "Well, the next thing that happened was that the rebels made that big raid on the Capitol that pulled Peeta and some other prisoners out of the Capitol's torture chamber," I say.

"I didn't know about that," Archer says.

"We were briefed on it by Gus," I say. "He said it worked well."

On the screen, Katniss's visit to her home district is replaced by her work in my home district. I watch this part closely. I recognize people in the segments – stone-cutters and quarry workers with thick hands, the scattered villages, and the town, divided and shelled. I feel a little sickened when I see my old school, with a side of it ripped apart by a bomb.

"Were you there when this tape was made?" Archer asks.

"We were fighting in another area," I say. "When they destroyed the Capitol's headquarters in the mountain, we were preparing for the attack on the bridge. I missed this part," I say. Or maybe my bosses didn't want me fighting in my home district, possibly against my friends and neighbors, I think.

There's footage of Katniss visiting a hospital full of civilians, trying to boost morale by her mere presence. I lean forward and study the wounded and bandaged people, whose eyes and faces are brightening up at a few words from the Mockingjay.

Suddenly I hit the freeze-frame button on the remote control, and point at a black woman about my age lying on a stretcher, with a heavily bandaged arm. "I don't believe it," I say.

"Not Meredith," Kae Lyn chirps. "I love being right all the time."

"You're right, it's not Meredith. It's Helen Crosby. She was my first…"

Archer spreads his mouth wide into a huge smile. "Your first what?"

Kae Lyn starts laughing. "Your first sister, right?"

I feel a hot flush in my face. Both of them are laughing hard. "What is it with you?" Kae Lyn asks, for only the 150th time.

"You only date sisters?" Archer says. "I wanna hear this."

"Something wrong with my choice of girlfriends and lovers, Mr. Archer?" I retort.

"Hell, I don't care, I'll chase anything in a skirt," Archer says. "I just never met a guy who restricted himself like that."

"And I want to hear this story," Kae Lyn says.

"Can we go on with this tape," I say, hitting the play button.

Archer grabs the controller, and hits freeze-frame again. "I want to hear this."

I turn to Kae Lyn. "You opened the door," she says.

I sigh, take back the remote and fling it on the table. "Yes, she was my first. Back in school. We were both 16. She came over to my lunch table and asked me out. I said yes."

"She asked you out?" Kae Lyn says. "That's pretty forward."

"She later told me her buddies dared her to do it. We went out for a few months."

"And you never looked back," Kae Lyn says.

"I never looked back," I say.

"Did you do her?" Archer asks.

I lean into Archer's face. "That, at least, is none of your fucking business, pal. I don't kiss and tell."

Archer throws his hands up again. "Sorry, sorry. I just…"

"Yeah, I know, you're Ace being Ace," I say. "Just drop it."

"What happened to Helen?" Kae Lyn asks.

"As far as I know, she became a clerk for the Peacekeepers," I say. "I guess her barracks was hit in the fighting." I hit the play button on the remote control. "Let's move on."

The tape continues. Now it shows Katniss standing in front of District 2's Hall of Justice, making a speech, standing before two huge TV screens, urging the remaining Capitol loyalists to surrender. She tells them that the real enemy is the Capitol. She says, "The rebels are not your enemy! We all have one enemy, and it's the Capitol! This is our chance to put an end to their power, but we need every district person to do it! Please! Join us!"

We watch the tape, sipping coffee and orange juice. Katniss turns toward the screens on the Hall of Justice.

"Looks like she wants to see how her audience reacts," Kae Lyn says. I nod.

Someone in the audience reacts by shooting her. Then chaos reigns, as rebel troops swarm all over the loyalists, clubbing and bayoneting them. The loyalists get the point, and hurl their guns down and put their hands up in the air.

"What happened to the guy who shot her?" Archer asks.

"I have no idea," I say. "But I do know that after this incident, District 2 was firmly in rebel control."

The tape plays out, and Archer throws in the next one. It starts with Katniss in an undefined hospital bed somewhere – probably District 13 – showing off stitches and bruising, congratulating the Districts on their unity, and warning the Capitol that the united Districts are coming soon.

"That was to make sure everyone knew she was alive and well," I say.

Next comes another piece of rebel propaganda, from the assault on the Capitol. Kae Lyn and I were both in this grim battle. With the Black Devils decimated, the outfit was broken up. We were assigned to cover a light infantry unit, which called itself the "Stonewall Brigade," for reasons I never learned. There are shots of tents, rebel troops moving cautiously through damaged streets, artillery and mortar bombardments, and Katniss and her pals from what the film calls a "special squad" firing at buildings, intercut with buildings collapsing.

When the footage starts, I grip my mug of coffee a little tighter. The footage takes me straight back to the stuff that gives me flashbacks and nightmares. I want to leap up and tell the rebel soldiers on the screen to hit the dirt, and then dive under the table myself. Kae Lyn grabs my left arm. "I'm okay," I say.

Archer doesn't notice. He's riveted to the footage. I nudge Kae Lyn. "He's fascinated," I say.

"He thinks it's cool." She points at a building as it collapses. "Didn't we take out that department store?"

I nod. I'd rather not remember helping to place the explosives around the building that killed 40 or so Peacekeepers. The Mockingjay was nowhere near that particular firefight. I guess the propagandists on our side wanted to give her credit for something she didn't actually do.

"Another promising line of inquiry," I mutter.

There is more raw footage of Katniss and her squad in what appears to be a battle against Capitol pods, on a residential block. One pod unleashes a spray of gunfire, and the other nets invaders. Katniss and her crew methodically defeat the two pods.

"That doesn't look right," I say. "That was too easy…there were no Peacekeepers supporting the pods, and there were only two of them."

"They didn't bring up any anti-tank missiles or machine-guns in support," Kae Lyn says. "But listen to the sound – you can hear machine-guns. And look, they hit the dirt, get up, and hit the dirt again."

"It's like they staged this battle," I say. I lean forward. "Isn't that guy on the left Gale Hawthorne?" I hit the freeze-frame button.

"That's him," Kae Lyn says. "And there's Peeta over on the right."

"Yeah…what's he doing there? I thought he was a mental and physical wreck." I make more notes and hit the play button. "Another line of inquiry."

Kae Lyn grabs my arm. I look back up at the screen. There is a blinding explosion on the tape. When the smoke clears, one of the soldiers is lying on the ground, legs blown off, in agony. He appears to be the squad leader. On the tape, Katniss kneels beside the wounded man, who seems to be working his Holo device. I'm having trouble watching this footage. I feel my lunch rising in my stomach, an urge to vomit. I hold it down.

Archer is still riveted to the action. "Holy shit," he says.

"He's turning command over to Katniss," Kae Lyn says.

"Yeah. The street must have been mined." Katniss and a soldier drag their wounded buddy along the street. Then Peeta races out towards Katniss.

"He's going to kill her," I say. I recognize the look in Peeta's face.

Another soldier tackles Peeta and pins him to the ground. Peeta gets his feet under the soldier's belly and launches him further down the block.

"What the fuck is going on here?" Archer asks. "That guy is attacking his own buddies."

"This doesn't make sense," I say. "It's like Peeta went nuts." One of the block's pods snaps, and four cables, attached to tracks on buildings, break through the stones, dragging up a net that encases the soldier who tackled Peeta. The soldier is trapped inside the net, which appears to be full of barbs.

Two of Katniss's soldiers shoot open a front door lock on a corner building, and fire at the cables holding their trapped buddy's net. It reminds me of some of the pods I fought in the battle for the Capitol, which were equally hideous. Katniss and another soldier drag their now legless squad leader into a house, followed by two more soldiers who are hauling a writhing Peeta. The tape cuts to black.

"Well, that makes no sense," Kae Lyn says.

"Sure, it does," I say. "They thought the block was easier than it was, and they paid for it. The only thing that's baffling is what Peeta was doing there and why he turned on his own buddies."

"What happened next?" Archer asks.

I return to George's presentation. "The Capitol quickly announced that Katniss had been killed, and apparently everyone believed it, because Coin cut in to the Capitol's broadcast to announce the same thing. She said, 'Dead or alive, Katniss Everdeen will remain the face of this rebellion. If ever you waver in your resolve, think of the Mockingjay, and in her you will find the strength you need to rid Panem of its opponents.'"

"I never heard that speech," Kae Lyn says.

"Neither did I. We were too busy fighting," I say. "We were too busy digging them out with satchel charges to care about a speech.

"Then the Capitol changed its tune and admitted that Katniss's body had not been found, and offered a huge reward for her whereabouts. She pretty much disappears from the battle, until…that big battle at the presidential mansion."

"Were you at that?" Archer asks.

"We were at that," Kae Lyn says, her voice cold.

I don't look at the tape, which shows raw footage from the battle. I know it by heart.

We charged up a street, driving refugees and Peacekeepers ahead of us, until we reached the concrete barricades around the presidential mansion. Behind the barricades were hordes of Capitol children, being used by Snow as human shields, his last and most pathetic defense.

Kae Lyn and I tried to break past the Peacekeepers ahead of us, when a hovercraft with the Capitol's seal swooped down and dropped silver parachutes onto the kids. They thought they were gifts of food. Kae Lyn and I knew from harsh experience that the parachutes had to be bombs. About 20 of them went off, and little children exploded into fragments in front of me. I screamed for medics, and a whole group of them ran by us into the crowd of bloody, maimed people, brandishing medical kits. As they charged in, the rest of the parachute bombs exploded, killing many more kids and many of the medics.

The force of the explosions knocked Kae Lyn and I off our feet, and flung me to the ground. I was temporarily deafened by the noise, but otherwise unharmed. I remember seeing what looked like bits of tinfoil fluttering through the air as I lay on the street, and then suddenly a bloody arm stump landed next to my right ear, drenching me with viscous red fluid. I jumped up and regained my focus. The explosions were stopped, replaced by filthy, oily smoke, and screaming and groaning people.

After that, Kae Lyn and I helped some of the surviving medics treat wounded people, and we also got quotes and took photographs of the scene.

As we worked, a rumor trickled through the square that President Snow had surrendered, and Kae Lyn and I ran into the presidential palace's main entrance, just in time to see President Snow being flung to the ground by his captors. Kae Lyn got that classic shot of rebel troops shoving their rifles at the back of Snow's head.

We stayed with the arresting party and the ex-President the rest of the day.

"Yeah, we were there," I say. I'll leave it at that. I will have trouble holding down dinner and sleeping tonight.

"And that was the end of the war," Kae Lyn says.

"Not quite," I say. "We have one more segment to watch."

And there it is. President Coin announces the new Hunger Games, to involve children from the Capitol. As if not enough have been killed in the war and the bombing at the presidential palace.

"I really don't need to see this section, either. We were there for this, too," I say.

But we watch it anyway. The front doors of the presidential mansion. Coin standing on the balcony. Hordes of guards, officials, rebel leaders, and troops, most of them in District 13 gray. Dirty piles of snow. Out from a door appears Katniss, in her Mockingjay suit, complete with the pin. I remember the crowd going nuts, chanting her name. She steps up to a mark, turns in profile, and waits.

Then out comes Snow from another door, under heavy guard, getting booed by the audience. Snake-like as ever. The guards tie Snow to a post 10 yards away from Katniss.

"She couldn't have missed at that range," Kae Lyn says.

"She didn't," I answer.

Katniss aims at Snow's nose. She stares at him for the longest time.

"What we need to know is what was going through her mind at that moment," I say.

Katniss suddenly points her bow and arrow up at the balcony, and releases her arrow. It flies up at the balcony and hits President Coin directly in the heart. She collapses over the side of the balcony and plunges to the ground.

"If the arrow didn't get her, the fall did," I say.

"It isn't the fall that kills you," Archer says. "It's the sudden stop. De-acceleration trauma." He laughs at his own joke. "I got a million of them."

"I see that," I say.

Chaos reigns on the screen. Gray-clad District 13 troops surround Katniss and try to carry her off. A face pops out of the squirming mass of gray – Peeta. Katniss twists her head and bites into his hand as he rips at a pocket on her sleeve.

"What's that all about?" Kae Lyn asks.

"I'm going to have more questions for the Mockingjay than they did for the Minister of Education at his trial," I mutter. "And he was only charged with 52 counts of capital offenses."

Katniss is carried off into the presidential mansion, and the tape ends.

"And that's our entire video library of Katniss Everdeen," I say. "They tried her in absentia for killing Coin, and as we all know, she walked on an insanity defense."

"Yeah, and that doesn't make sense to me, either," Archer says.

We look at him, puzzled.

"They tried her, and she wasn't there? I'm not the biggest legal scholar in Panem, but I think they were required to produce her at the trial," Archer says. "It's a term called 'habeas corpus.'"

Long silence in the room. "It means, 'you must produce the body,'" Archer says.

"How do you know that stuff?" I ask Archer.

"One of the guys I used to shoot pictures for was a lawyer in the Capitol. He liked to talk about his cases."

This guy surprises me. One minute he's a brutish insensitive clod, the next minute he's sharp and on-point. Maybe he just needs his brains sorted out. Or a good swift kick in the balls. I'm trying to decide which when George returns into the room.

"So how were the Katniss videos?" he asks.

"They took me straight back to the war," I say.

"When are you going to give this newspaper a first-person exclusive on your war?" George ripostes.

"Sometime in the next century," I say, putting together my notes. I look back up at George, meeting his eyes, firm. "I think we've discussed this a few times. My answer is still 'no.'"

"You saw all the action," George says.

"And then I got into combat," I answer. "I have enough nightmares about that damn war. I don't feel like re-living them to improve this paper's circulation."

The silence hangs in the room. George changes the subject. "Are you all briefed to go to District 12 tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, I think Ace and I have what we need, don't we, Ace?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah, I'm good," Archer says.

"Okay," George says. "Not that I need to put pressure on you, but we have to get this story. You two stay out there as long as you have to. You don't come back here without that interview."

"Any other great words of advice?" I ask George.

"Yes, avoid the moor when the powers of evil are exalted," he says.

I laugh. "I hate to tell you, George, but I did look over the folder on District 12's geography, and there are no moors in District 12. In fact, it bears no resemblance to Devonshire at the time of Sherlock Holmes, in any way shape or form. Got any better ideas?"

"How about this from your own favorite author, 'This above all: to thine own self be true.'"

"That works for me," I say.

"Good." George turns briskly to Kae Lyn. "And you, get your highly professional ass on the train to District 1 forthwith."

"We got more on that terrorist incident out there?" I ask.

"Yes, we do," George says. "A manifesto was delivered to District 1's Hall of Justice while you people were watching war movies. The 'Defenders of the Hunger Games' are demanding their reinstatement, under pre-war conditions, or there will be further attacks. The police haven't released the entire contents of the manifesto yet, but they will be doing so in a short time."

"Needless to say, I presume that the 'Defenders of the Hunger Games' are anonymous," I say.

"Right first time," George says. "The police have ordered a full alert. The president is making a nationally-televised speech on this subject this evening."

"Shit," Archer says.

I turn to Kae Lyn. "I guess we didn't bring the utopia when we won the war," I say.

"You can't please everyone," Kae Lyn answers. Then she grins. "I love being right all the time."

George strides out of the room to work on the story, leaving us to react to the latest news.

"I think I know what's going on out there," Archer says.

"This I want to hear," I say. "Tell me."

"You have to understand what it's like for guys and girls who grew up all their lives getting ready to be a Tribute," he says.

"I know the type," I answer. "I grew up in District 2. They all think they can conquer the world."

Suddenly I get it. "They're not traumatized by the Hunger Games. They miss them. They want them back. It's all they know. It's their whole world."

"I guess they don't like the new one we're making," Kae Lyn says. She glances at her watch. "I have to go."

She digs into her handbag and produces some music chips and hands them to me. "This is the real reason I came in here. You're going to be out in the boondocks a very long time, and I'm told that District 12 has no bars, no movie theaters, no nightclubs…"

"Oh, this is going to be fucking fun," Archer blurts out.

"So I made you some extra music chips," Kae Lyn says.

"What's on them" I ask.

"A mix of stuff…all your favorites, Sinatra, Springsteen, Rihanna, a bunch of others. A singer they just re-discovered…Vanessa Williams."

I examine the chips and put them in my pocket. It's a sad commentary that the nation of Panem has not developed any decent music in its 75 years of existence. With the disasters that have befallen civilization over the past 300 years, there hasn't been much new music at all. All of our good music is centuries old.

Kae Lyn heads for the door. For the first time in a year and a half, we're going on separate assignments. She turns at the door, and looks at us. Her eyes seem misty. "I guess we're breaking up the team right here, huh?"

My lips feel dry. "It's not forever, Kae Lyn. It's just for one story."

Kae Lyn can't return my look. She just nods her head. "Go find that Mockingjay," she says at last. "Maybe she can send us a message that makes a difference."

Then she goes.

I feel like my right arm has been cut off.


	6. Chapter 6

**INTERVIEW WITH THE MOCKINGJAY – Chapter 6**

That evening President Paylor addresses the nation, and tells us that the government will not tolerate acts of terror and attempts at intimidation. "We will not submit to tyranny by terror," she says. I watch the speech at home, sipping some of the Capitol's wine, and wonder if the war will ever really end.

The President is in good form. A combat veteran, her tone is harsh on the terrorists. Then the camera pulls back and we see a lanky, white-haired man standing next to her, in immaculate general's uniform. Paylor says, "I have placed General Cassius Gray in command of the forces that will pursue these terrorists. General Gray is a hero of the rebellion, and one of our finest masters of the operational art…"

The phone rings, cutting the president off, and it's my fellow Black Devil alumnus, Jennifer Murray, screeching at me from District 10. "Can you believe this shit on TV, Charlie? They want Cassius Gray to find the terrorists! He couldn't find water if he fell out of a boat!"

I have to laugh. "Jennifer, that's what I love about you. You don't waste time on pleasantries. And a good evening to you, and how are you and Slim?"

"Well, we're fine, Winston," she says, using the nickname Gus Lewis gave me back in the war. "And a good evening to you. But I can't believe they'd put that pompous jackass in charge of anything. He can't run a meat market, and I know a thing or two about selling meat!"

Cassius Gray is a sore point for the Black Devils. I sip my wine. The Capitol really needs to improve its liquor, along with everything else in Panem. "I can't believe it, either," I say.

Cassius Gray led the ground force that was to relieve us at Gus's Bridge, during the war. He was supposed to be up to our position in two days. It took him nine. Worse, his bullheaded tactics cost the lives of many of his men, both before and after the battle at the bridge. Given how many Black Devils died at the bridge, and how long Gray took to get to us, his name is not well-loved among survivors.

And worse, after the Black Devils were pulled out to regroup, instead of replacing our losses, he disbanded the regiment, to our fury. We felt we had earned the right to go on fighting,

More importantly, his rebel credentials are questionable, as Jennifer reminds me. "You know, before that bastard was a colonel in the Rebel Army, he was the Head Peacekeeper in District 11."

"I know, as you have told me a dozen times," I say. When the rebellion broke out, Gray took control of the broadcast feed in District 11, and announced that he was actually among the Capitol Underground that had been secretly opposed to the government, and rallied the district to the rebellion, bringing a number of the District 11 Peacekeepers – and all their arms and supplies – with him.

"Did you ever ask your pal Meredith about Gray? She was from District 11, you know."

"I know very well," I say. "And I did ask her about Gray once."

"What did she say?"

"'Don't ask,' was her answer. She wouldn't talk about that guy."

"Well, he was her commanding officer, wasn't he? She served under him."

"Which is one good reason Meredith wouldn't talk badly about him," I answer. "Especially to a journalist."

"That man Gray was no brilliant war leader," Jennifer says. "He was a cynical opportunist. And he broke up the Black Devils. I'm going to write to the President." She yells to the side, "Slim, get me a crayon! I'm going to write the President!"

Jennifer always cracks me up.

"Seriously, Charlie, you should write our story. Nobody knows what the Black Devils did in the war. You were there for all of it. You're the only man who can do it," she says.

Long silence at my end.

"What? I say something wrong?" Jennifer asks.

"You know I don't want to write or talk about it. With outsiders, I mean," I say.

Jennifer's voice turns harsh. "Charlie Allbright, I never figured you for a coward. You should write our history when you're finished with the Mockingjay."

"Okay, Jennifer, if writing up the history of the Black Devils is so important, why don't you do it?" I retort.

Long silence at her end. "Well, I don't have the writing talent you have," she fumes.

"No, Jennifer, it's the same reason I can't write about it. Because it hurts so much."

Jennifer sighs. "I have the same nightmares, Charlie. But the story's got to be told."

"My pal George Altman once said the real war will never make it into the history books," I say.

"That's why I call your pal George Altman the 'Quote Machine,'" Jennifer says. "I don't know…if you can write about the Mockingjay and her war, you can write about the Black Devils and our war."

"When I get back…we'll talk about it," I say.

"You better, because I'm holding you to that promise. I'm so mad about this, I'm going to form a reunion organization for the Black Devils, and start raising money for a monument at the bridge."

"You do that, Jennifer. I'll be the first to sign up."

We talk about our fellow Black Devils for a few more minutes, and then the talk turns, as it often does, to Gus Lewis.

"You know, he hated Cassius Gray," Jennifer says.

"I didn't know that," I say.

"He told me during an O Group," she says. "O Group" was the term for an officers' briefing in the field. The term stands for "Orders Group."

"I think you were up at the line," she says. "But he said Gray had no abilities as a strategist, no idea of the operational art, was not a tactician, and was not a soldier. Otherwise, Gus said, Cassius was a great general."

I laugh. "Gus made his opinions known. Why did Gus hate Gray?"

"The two of them were rivals. Both renegades from the Capitol who joined the rebellion as leaders," Jennifer says. "Only Gus joined the rebellion out of conviction, while he believed Gray joined it out of opportunism."

"And now Cassius Gray is a hero and leading the pursuit of terrorists," I say.

"And Gus Lewis is dead and buried at the bridge," Jennifer answers. "It should be the other way around."

I can only agree. We bid each other good night.

"Say hello to the Mockingjay for me," Jennifer says. "Tell her that her jewelry line is selling well in District 10."

"I will."

"And don't forget to ask her what happened to the baby."

"I will. Good night, Jennifer."

I hang up the phone, and watch the rest of the speech. Paylor tells us, "During the war, General Gray was relentless in achieving victory. Now, he will be relentless in preserving it."

I raise my wine glass, and drink a toast to General Cassius Gray. "Here's hoping you can move faster on the terrorists than you did in the war, pal," I say.

The tapes and disks of Hunger Games action and wars have the usual impact on me that night…I suffer from the usual nightmares.

Once again, I'm defending that bloody bridge, with Jennifer, Cornbread, Kae Lyn, and Mark, and we're being attacked by Tracker Jackers. Only this time, our insecticide doesn't work, and the hideous wasps overwhelm our position. The Tracker Jackers swarm over us, and sprout knives from their wings, filling me with deadly venom. I see my buddies get shredded by the Tracker Jackers' knives. Jennifer explodes from a shell. Gus Lewis strides through the Tracker Jackers, and is cut to ribbons. Kae Lyn is next to go down. Katniss Everdeen is there, too, even though she wasn't really at the battle, flipping back from a stream of bullets. Meredith is there, too, her face exploding into a gaping hole. I run out of my dugout to save her, and then I am being cut up myself…

…And I wake up and find myself in a cold sweat at 4 a.m.

I climb out of bed, grab my music player, and put in one of Kae Lyn's music chips. Then I throw on a robe and walk out onto the balcony. Outside it's the dark of pre-dawn. Most of the Capitol's lights are out, and there is very little traffic on the streets.

I hit the play button, and out comes a voice I've never heard before:

"Remember when we held on in the rain  
The night we almost lost it  
Once again we can take the night  
Into tomorrow living on feelings  
Touching you I feel it all again

Didn't we almost have it all  
When love was all we had worth giving?  
The ride with you was worth the fall my friend  
Loving you makes life worth living…"  
I look at the digital display on the player. The song is called "Didn't We Almost Have It All," by a singer named Whitney Houston. I've never heard of her. Must have been one of the additions from Kae Lyn. Whitney has a haunting and powerful voice. I almost had it all, myself.

The song cools me down. I lean out on the balcony and inhale the cold air.

I have a little game I play when I have the nightmares, in which I try to replace the horrific thoughts with pleasant memories…incidents of pure good I have seen, witnessed, or been part of. I remember Mommy's cooking. How Daddy stayed by her side in the hospital during her cancer treatments, holding her hand. The first time I had an article published back in District 2. They day I was named editor of the District 2 paper. George Altman offering me the job at the **Times**. Kae Lyn and I hoisting drinks after a long day of work. The day they told me I was being discharged from the army. Capturing a dozen senior Peacekeepers in a raid. Jennifer's tasteless, brassy, and hilarious jokes. And then Meredith and I are running together, back in training, over the 3-mile course, in the early evening. I can see her slender legs, her natural hair waving, her shining eyes, hear her laughing…

No, I don't want to remember that now.

Back to the day the newly-graduated Black Devils posed for their official photograph. It took Kae Lyn three tries with the timer to get the shot.

That's better.

Now the player has a new song, one more familiar, U2's "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For."

"I have climbed highest mountain  
I have run through the fields  
Only to be with you  
Only to be with you

I have run  
I have crawled  
I have scaled these city walls  
These city walls  
Only to be with you

But I still haven't found what I'm looking for  
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for

I have kissed honey lips  
Felt the healing in her fingertips  
It burned like fire  
This burning desire."

This relaxes me. I stagger back to bed and play out the rest of the song. Then I remove the player, and have more peaceful dreams.

I meet up with Archer at the train station at 11:30 a.m., lugging two sets of grips, a briefcase with my laptop computer, and wearing my army-issue backpack. Archer sits perched on his three bags, camera around his neck, listening to his music player. He pulls the earphones out of his ears, and greets me heartily.

"You ready, boss?" he asks.

"Yeah, let's go."

The train to District 12 is a 40-car freight train, with three passenger cars tacked on at the tail. The government is committed to rebuilding District 12, treating it as something of a test site for other rebuilding projects. The freight cars are jammed with construction materials and food. Most of the other passengers are newly-hired construction workers, who will earn considerable money for their work. In return they have to put up with living for weeks or even months in a district that has been pretty much burned to the ground. But for these men and women, the opportunity to enrich themselves and families that have known nothing but grinding poverty under the Panem heel is irresistible.

"I wonder what they'll do when they find out District 12 doesn't have a nightclub," Archer says, as we flop down in our seats opposite each other.

"I think a nightclub was one of the first things they built out there," I answer.

"Fantastic," Archer says. "I was afraid I'd be bored shitless."

On the opposite track stands a wrecked passenger train. Like much war-related debris, it hasn't been removed. Archer points it out to me. "That's one of the Tribute trains," he says. "It got destroyed in the war. They're not going to repair it or move it until they've handled other projects first."

"Good sense of priorities," I say. The Tribute trains could rocket along Panem's tracks at 250 miles per hour, and provided their few passengers with showers and rich food. We have upper berths and sandwiches. We live in a freer but more austere climate now.

Before the train leaves, a newsboy sells papers to passengers. He offers the **Panem Times **and the **Panem Post**, the two rival papers. Our paper prepares the "first rough draft of history," as George likes to say, while the **Post** offers more shallow fare, violence, scandal, sex, and mayhem. Today's **Times** has covered the financial irregularities of one Cabinet secretary's corruption in excruciating detail. The **Post** writes about how that same secretary took payoffs so that Capitol women could have sex with the legendary Finnick Odair, District 4's winning Tribute from 11 years ago. Now Finnick is one of the "glorious dead" from the liberation of the Capitol, and the women he was forced to have sex have their photographs in a center spread in the paper.

That subject, however, is the **Post**'s second-lead story today. Both papers are leading with the terrorist attack in District 1, and President Paylor's response. The **Times** story focuses on the increased police alert level, while the **Post** shows us the exploded police car, photographs of the dead cops, and an interview with one of the grieving families, along with a hagiographic story about Cassius Gray. They have a spread of him on pages three and four, including the shot of him entering the Capitol, in his immaculate District 13-issue gray uniform, surrounded by worshipful staff members. Naturally. He gave them all medals and promotions.

"That guy thought generalship was handing out medals and posing for pictures," I say.

"I heard he won a lot of battles," Archer says.

"He took too many casualties, and didn't believe in maneuver," I say.

I flip to the **Post**'s coverage of the dead cops.

"Kae Lyn will have her work cut out for her," I say. "The **Post **has already got better shots than we do."

"The cops are going on a high alert level," Archer says. "What the hell does that mean?"

I peer up at the door to the train car. Two blue-uniformed police officers are entering it. "It means the cops are right here, on the train. Probably checking tickets and identification."

Sure enough, the two officers, bareheaded but wearing flak vests and mirrored sunglasses, stride through the car, examining tickets and identity cards. We have ours at the ready.

"IDs, please," one of the cops asks.

Archer and I show him our tickets and identification cards. The officer runs them through a portable scanner.

"Neither of you are construction workers?" he asks.

"No," I say.

"So why are you going to District 12?"

Archer snaps his gum. "We're journalists," I say to the cop. "We're doing a story on District 12."

The officer looks down at our IDs, back at us, back at the IDs, and then hands them to us. "Thank you, gentlemen, have a pleasant day," he says, in a cold voice.

"Guess he doesn't like journalists," Archer says.

"Don't think he likes people," I say. More likely he doesn't like his colleagues in District 1 being ambushed and massacred, I think.

"Somebody told me that real revolution begins with a strengthening of the power of the state," I say. "Look what happened to the previous regime."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Archer says, puzzled.

"Well, they tried to strengthen the power of the state by holding the 75th Hunger Games, in a manner designed to kill living Hunger Games winners, to show that nobody was safe from being brutally murdered by President Snow."

"And that helped lead to the rebellion," Archer says.

"And now Paylor has to tighten up the screws after that killing in District 1. That might make it easier for a counter-revolution," I say.

Archer nods his head and tightens his lips. "Well, maybe I'll get a chance to fight somebody," he says. He buries himself in the photo-spread of the women who have been named as sexual partners with Finnick Odair, as the train pulls out of the station, and into the tunnel under the mountains.

"Do her, do her, do her, wouldn't touch her, shot and did her, she must be 60, do her," Archer chants out, studying his newspaper.

"What the hell are you doing," I blurt out.

"Seeing which of these girls I'd go to bed with," he says. "Damn, talk about a cross-section of the Capitol's women!"

He shows me the center spread. He's absolutely right – the women linked to Finnick Odair are a wide range of the Capitol's former elite, ranging in age from 18 to 80. Some have the outrageous wigs and hair-color that used to bedeck the Capitol's brightest socialites. "I wonder how many of them look like that now," I say.

Archer points at one of the women, in red-and-blue striped hair. "She was in an overnight group tour of a Hunger Games arena that I worked on. After the dinner, we went up to her hotel room for a one-night stand."

"You seduced her?"

Archer shakes his head. "She was all over me. 40 at least. Her husband had just dumped her for a younger woman. Or something like that." Archer grins. "I don't see your girlfriend in here."

"You wouldn't," I say. "She had too much class. But she never lived in the Capitol, anyway."

The train roars out from under the mountain range and into the sunshine. The construction workers behind us break out a deck of cards and start a loud poker game.

"These girls paid a lot of money to do it with Finnick," Archer says. "But he didn't see any of it."

"No, he wound up in District 13, in the rebellion, and getting married to his long-time girlfriend," I say. "And now that poor girl has to raise their kid without a father."

"That sucks," Archer says. "Didn't Katniss Everdeen lose her father, too?"

"Yeah, I think in a mining incident," I say. "We have to check on that."

The train rumbles over a bridge, and past swamps and lakes. Archer points out the window. "See those light towers and pre-fab buildings over there," he asks.

I glance out the window and see light towers and flat-topped white modular buildings, looking like trailers, in the distance. "Yes, what about it?"

"That's a Hunger Games arena. Not sure which one. But it's a recent one," Archer says.

"How do you know that," I ask.

"From the light towers and the pre-fabricated buildings," Archer says. "They all have a control area right near the actual site. It's got a landing pad for hovercraft and hoverplanes, and the Launching Pad underneath. I can recognize that construction anywhere."

We race by the arena, and roll on. "Do you know which Games that was?"

"I think the 61st or the 62nd," Archer says. "I'm pretty sure I did a shoot out here. "A couple of the Tributes fell into the swamps and drowned."

The Hunger Games arenas still stand all over Panem. With rebuilding the first priority, a million dead, there is neither manpower nor resources to waste on tearing down the arenas. And there is talk of building memorials.

I point out toward the now-distant arena. "Ace, you're the expert on this stuff…do you think these terrorists will go to a Hunger Games site…to make a pilgrimage?"

Archer chomps on the gum. "Now that's a good idea," he says. "Yeah. I could see them doing that. They'd go there and come up with ideas on what they want to do next. Get real inspired from the actual scenery."

I find the **Times**, and read through the terrorists' demands, aloud. They're very simple. They want the Hunger Games back, just like in the old days. Restoration of the dictatorship. Amnesty and empowerment for Gamemakers.

I toss the newspaper down. "It could happen," I say.

"I thought the whole country wanted the Hunger Games buried," Archer says.

"The government is new," I say. "If it can't maintain public loyalty, restore prosperity and order, it could fall to a counter-revolution."

"So what's it going take to prop up the government?" Archer asks. He's genuinely interested, I notice. He may have the manners of a Buffalo armored fighting vehicle, but he's a bright guy. He just needs the rough edges chipped off.

I stare out the window at the terrain flashing by. Was this once called Colorado, I think. "A strong statement in favor of the government and peace by someone with unimpeachable credentials. Someone everyone can rally around."

"Katniss Everdeen," Archer says.

I nod my head, still staring out at the fields and forests. Suddenly ruins flash by, shattered buildings, covered with leaves. This is not from the war we just ended. These are ruins from decades or even centuries ago. From the wars that led to Panem. The ruins go on and on, cratered streets, blasted buildings, twisted metal, and piles of rubble. I see animals nosing through the rubble.

"If we don't sort ourselves out, this could be our fate, too," I say.

Archer stares at the window, amazed, his gum snapping. The ruins keep on going. "What the hell is this," he asks.

I struggle with my knowledge of history, which is better than most, and geography, which is poorer than others. Was this a major city? Are we indeed in Colorado? So this would have been Denver, perhaps?

"You know, Ace, this continent we live on used to have a population of more than 300 million people. All of Panem has a population of 2.5 million. We lost a million people in the war. If we had another war, we might become a minority species on this planet. Even an extinct one."

Archer pops his gum. A construction worker behind me shouts with delight at having drawn a full house.

"Shit," Archer says at last. He slouches back in his seat and looks down at his sneakers for a long time.

Maybe it's time to change the subject. It's an overnight trip to District 12, and all this lugubrious talk is making it longer.

I reach for Ace's copy of the **Post**, and flip to the center spread on Finnick Odair's harem. "I actually know a couple of these women," I say.

"How so?" Archer says, his face brightening.

I point at one of the photographs. "She's the wife of the former Secretary of Agriculture," I say. "She was at his trial every day. She would give on-the-record comments of what she thought of the trial."

"Was she for it or against it?"

"Against it. She said her husband was innocent."

"What did he do?" Archer asks.

"Starved the Districts and made sure the Capitol had enough food."

"Yeah, but by the laws of Panem, that wasn't exactly an indictable offense," Archer says. "The Capitol led the league in wasting food."

"Led the league?" I ask. "That's a phrase I never heard."

"Baseball term. Very popular sport in District 1 and the Capitol," Archer says. "Ever play it?"

I shake my head. "We only had combat sports in District 2."

"I would have enjoyed that. But baseball's fun," Archer answers. "Anyway, it wasn't illegal to waste food in the Capitol. Those assholes had a pill that would enable them to vomit up food they ate, then eat some more. All those shitheads did at their dinners was stuff themselves and puke themselves."

I feel a sense of disgust. I know about the vomit pills, but Archer's reminding me of them only irritates me.

"So how did they nail the Secretary of Agriculture?" Archer asks.

"The usual thing," I say. "Payoffs. Corruption. Greed."

Archer shakes his head. "Sometimes I'd ask myself, when I was out on shoots, 'How much is fucking enough?' I mean, how many times can you get plastic surgery? How many times can you have dinner each night? I didn't get it."

"I don't think there is any answer to that kind of excess."

Archer stares down at the photographs. "Well, I don't know the answer, either."

You're too young, I think. But at least it's refreshing…most people his age think they have all the answers.

Archer pulls out his earphones, and sticks them in his head. I hear loud metallic music, and then he adjusts the volume to make it quieter. I'm familiar with it – they liked to wake us up in basic training to that kind of music, to get our blood pumping. Sometimes they played it when we were exercising.

I break out my own music player, and plug in my own headphones. The next song is another one Kae Lyn has picked for me, which I'm hearing for the first time.

"I am just a poor boy  
though my story's seldom told

I have squandered my existence for a pocketful of mumbles - such are promises:  
All lies and jest, still a man hears what he wants to hear  
and disregards the rest.

When I left my home and my family  
I was no more than a boy  
in the company of strangers  
in the quiet of a railway station  
wet and scared.  
Laying low  
seeking out the poorer quarters where the ragged  
people go  
looking for the places only they would know."

The display tells me the song is called "The Boxer," by a pair named Simon and Garfunkel. It has a soothing rhythm, similar to the rumbling of the train's wheels. The song resonates…I have left my home and my various families – Daddy, my fellow Black Devils, and my co-workers at the paper – to go to the poorest district in the land, seeking out a place that only they know. I listen to the song, and re-read my notes and briefing documents for Katniss and District 12.


	7. Chapter 7

**INTERVIEW WITH THE MOCKINGJAY – Chapter 7**

That night, Archer and I have to share a compartment with upper and lower berths as our train treks its way across the continent. I take the upper bunk, Archer the lower one, and I try to fall asleep.

And again, I'm having the nightmares.

This time, it's one of the Black Devils' assaults on a gap in what was once called the Rocky Mountains. The rebels needed to control a mountain pass. In real life, we climbed the mountain by night and fell on the pass from the sides, with complete surprise and great success, killing or capturing the defending Peacekeepers, most of whom were fast asleep in their sleeping bags. Gus Lewis always disdained the Peacekeepers as enemies, and he was right.

In the dream, the Peacekeepers are fully alert and waiting for us, and they charge into our attack, screaming like banshees. They attack with huge knives instead of automatic weapons, and tear bloody holes in me and my buddies. I'm screaming back at them when I feel the knife go into my face…

…And Archer is up out of his lower berth, smacking me in the face to wake me up. "Jesus Christ, dude!" he yells. "What the hell!"

I leap up. "What…what happened?"

"That's what I want to know!" Archer shouts. "You were screaming your head off! Are you all right?"

I climb out of bed and jump to the floor. "I'm okay. I just had a nightmare."

"No shit, pal. You started thrashing around, and then you started screaming."

There is a knock at the door. "Who is it?" Archer yells.

"Conductor. I heard shouting in there. Are you all right?"

I pull on my jeans and go to the door, opening it slightly. "I'm sorry. I'm all right. Just had a nightmare."

The conductor, who looks red-eyed himself, nods. "Okay. Take it easy." He leaves. I shut the door.

Archer is standing there in his boxer shorts and tank top. "What time is it?" I ask.

"Four o'clock in the morning. And I want to go back to sleep."

"So do I," I mutter, as I climb back into my berth, shedding my jeans.

Archer plunges into his bed. "I don't know what kind of accommodations they have for us in District 12, but we're not sharing the same room," he growls. "And who the fuck is Meredith?"

I lean over the bed. "What?" I ask.

"You kept calling out the name, 'Meredith, Meredith,' over and over again. I thought we were going to interview Katniss Everdeen."

Goddammit, I think. "I'll tell you in the morning," I say.

Archer jumps out of his bed and glares right into my face. "You better, pal," he says. "I don't need to be scared out of my fucking wits every night by your goddamn nightmares."

"I'll tell you," I say. "Over breakfast. We don't get in to District 12 until around noon, anyway." I roll over to face the wall. I just want to get back to sleep.

"Yeah, right." Archer climbs back into his bed.

Then he pops up again, facing me. "Wait a second, I remember now. You and Kae Lyn mentioned her when we were reviewing the tapes yesterday. Just for a moment. She – she's the girl in the picture on your desk, right?"

I roll back and face Archer. His face is inches from mine. "Yes, she's the girl in the picture."

"I heard stories about this from the other photographers. That you have this wild obsession with some chick you knew in the war." He points his finger at me. "That it makes you crazy in some way."

I sit up in bed, feeling exposed and dizzy.

"You're going to tell me the whole fucking story, pal," Archer snarls.

"Well, I don't think it's any of your goddamn business, pal," I snarl back.

"Wrong fucking answer," Archer yells. "If I have to put up with you screaming every night, I have a right to know why." His voice drops an octave. "Does anybody else know the full story? At the paper, that is?"

"Just Kae Lyn."

"I see. Normally, you trust your photographer. But I guess that only applies to Kae Lyn."

"No, shithead, it's because she was there for all of it!" I yell back. "The war, Meredith, the last seven months with the paper! She's more than my photographer, she's one of my closest friends!"

Archer looks stunned. "What the fuck is this, some kind of three-way?"

"No! Kae Lyn and I were never lovers! Goddammit, I'll tell you in the morning!"

The train blasts out a whistle in answer.

Archer shakes his head. "You know, I used to think that the people I went with on Hunger Games arena tours were totally fucked up. They got crazy plastic surgery to make themselves look like wild animals, they wore clothing out of a freak show, they wasted food, they re-enacted fights from the Hunger Games at age 50, and came on to me at age 60. But you are more fucked up than all those guys put together."

"What the hell do you know about it," I yell back. "You're 19 years old. You ever been in love?"

"Yeah, plenty of times!"

"No, I mean real, deep, life-setting love! Did you ever meet your soul mate? The woman you wanted to spend the rest of your life with? And then have her disappear before you could have her? To fucking lose her and not know if she's alive or dead?"

Archer bites his lips. His adam's-apple bobs.

"I didn't think so," I snarl. "You've just had a lot of one-night stands. I'll bet you couldn't wait to get rid of them in the morning."

We stare at each other in fury for a long moment. Finally Archer breaks the spell. "You tell me this story in the morning."

"You'll get it. Just make sure you don't tell the whole goddamn world about it."

"I'm a journalist, too, pal. I protect my sources. Hey, and just because I'm 19, doesn't make me a moron. Or insensitive." He hops down back to his bed. I roll back over, and turn out the light.

Now we have something interesting to talk about for the remaining few hours, I think.

Regular passenger train service from one part of Panem to another is something new. Before the war, the only people who traveled from the Capitol to the Districts were government officials, business agents, Peacekeepers, Hunger Games participants, and the Capitol's tame journalists. The officials, Hunger Games people, and journalists traveled in luxury trains, packed with expensive foodstuffs.

In the struggle to rebuild a war-torn nation, the new rail service is a work-in-progress, like everything else. Trains spend long times on sidings, being repaired, or waiting for other, more important trains, loaded with supplies, to move past. Passenger cars are crowded. Upper and lower berths are the rule. But breakfast, at least, is good. Today, it consists of a bowl of cold cereal, scrambled eggs, and corned beef hash.

I wake up an hour after Archer, and arrive in the packed dining car to find him already picking at his eggs.

"Try them," he says. "They're good."

The waitress comes hustling over. "The same for me," I say.

"There's only one breakfast," the waitress answers as she makes a note on her pad and shuffles off.

"Well, that makes life simple," I say. "Listen, I'm sorry about last night. I have these nightmares from the war…"

Archer cuts me off. "If we're going to be together for the next couple of weeks, we're going to have to get along. And if you scream and yell in your sleep every night, we're going to have problems. Personally, it doesn't matter to me if you like three-ways. I've done them myself. But I get really pissed when my reporter treats me like I can't be trusted, and that I'm some kind of shitty…what's the word? Appendage."

"I'm sorry," I say again. "I have a lot of nightmares because of the war. You had to have been in it, to really understand it."

Archer wipes his lips with his napkin. "Try me. I may be young, but I'm not stupid."

"I don't think you'd really understand it…you really have to have been in it."

He gives me a hard look. "Okay. But you were screaming about Meredith. Now a love affair is a little different from the war." He starts cutting up his corned beef hash, then stops, and points his fork at me. "So I'm going to start over, from the beginning. This girl is something you're obsessed with. Like that book they made us read in school, about the white whale."

"**Moby Dick**," I say.

"I knew it had a dick in it," Archer says, breaking into his first smile of the day. "So, is she the girl in the picture on your desk?"

"She's the girl…in the picture…on my desk," I say, spacing my words slowly and carefully. "Her name is Meredith Jackson. She's from District 11."

"You and her were in the war together?"

My orange juice arrives, and I sip from it. "Yes, and there's more."

"She was your girlfriend?"

I nod my head. "We were involved."

"I thought Kae Lyn was your girlfriend."

"Kae Lyn is my photographer and my best friend," I say. "But we've never been lovers."

"And obviously you're still not…involved…with Meredith?" Archer looks straight into my eyes. "You said you don't know if she's alive or dead."

"I haven't seen her in more than a year. I think she was killed in the war."

"You think?" Archer's eyebrows go up. "I thought you had no idea."

"Her whole unit was wiped out in an ambush a week after that picture was taken," I say. "Nobody found her alive or dead. A lot of the bodies were burned beyond recognition."

Archer turns a little pale. "Shit," he says. "That's fucked up. So you really don't know if she's dead or alive."

"I have no idea what happened to her," I say, swirling my juice. "Nobody seems to know. A lot of people got lost in the war, and with the upheaval in the districts that followed."

"Did you ask her people in District 11?"

"I made some inquiries. Nobody knew what happened to her. District 11 took a beating in the war. And efficient communications and record-keeping are still a mess."

Archer chomps down on his eggs. "So you don't have any closure or shit like that."

"No. The last time I saw her, she was…"

Archer cuts me off. "No, I want to hear this from the beginning. Tell me about the first time you saw her."

That's a more pleasant story.

It is the second day that the rebel army's officers' training camp is open, in District 7, which at one time was supposedly northeast Montana and Canada. The mountains are perfect places for light infantry officers to train.

District 7 produces Panem's lumber, and the terrain consists of mountains, coniferous forests, and lakes. It is more beautiful than my home District 2, I have to admit.

The rebels have taken over the District 7 Peacekeepers' barracks, which is equipped with classrooms, gyms, lecture halls, a firing range, an obstacle course, and even a swimming pool.

Most of the rebel officer trainees have not arrived yet, and neither have the trainers from District 13, so the training program has not commenced. The rebel propaganda folks have decided that Kae Lyn and I, who have been working together for three weeks in their employ, should get officers' training before being embedded in the field. The theory is that we are brighter than the average rebel soldier, so we should be able to double up as junior officers in any unit we're assigned to. And we should have some understanding of tactics and leadership, so we know what's going on. We are to be soldiers first, combat correspondents second.

It is shortly after dawn on what will turn out to be a blisteringly hot June day, when I first meet Meredith.

As usual, I wake up at dawn to do my running, and I leave the barracks to do just that, my music player and music chip in hand. I ask the guard at the front desk if there's anywhere to jog, and she points me toward the three-mile jogging trail.

At the start of the trail, I find a woman with mocha-colored skin, wavy natural black hair, and long, slender, legs and arms, wearing a pair of blue running shorts and a white tank top, stretching those legs, getting ready for her run. She is seated on the ground, leaning forward, touching her toes.

I can't help it. I stare at the legs and arms…long, slender, sensuous. Her skin contrasts brilliantly with the white tank top.

She realizes I'm staring at her, and turns her face toward me, revealing deep, soulful eyes, and thick red lips. She has not an inch of make-up on, so right away I know she's not from the Capitol.

But she is positively the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life.

And I'm still staring at her like a terrified schoolboy, not a 29-year-old newspaper editor.

"Are you going to stand there and stare," she asks, flashing a brilliant smile, with a lilting voice.

She rises to her feet, and faces me, tossing back her hair, with her right hand, showing an armpit. Her firm, ripe breasts snub tightly against her white tank top, and around her neck she wears a necklace made of grass. A carved wooden flower hangs from it, pointed directly down at her cleavage.

And I'm still standing there staring at her.

And she's staring at me, with an impish grin.

I realize she's waiting for me to make a move, introduce myself, stand on my head, just do something.

So I fall back on the basics.

"Hi," I say, sticking out my right hand. "My name's Charlie Allbright. I'm from District 2."

She glides her hand into mine. "Meredith Jackson. From District 11."

"Farm girl," I say, trying to relieve my tension with humor.

Meredith tosses her hair again, and tugs at her necklace. "Not exactly. I was the assistant business administrator of my District before I joined the rebellion. And with your muscles, shouldn't you be a Career Tribute?"

I smile and laugh. "In my District, we had more than enough Tribute wanna-bes. No, I was a newspaper editor before I joined up. Now I'm what they call a 'combat correspondent.' My photographer and I are here to get trained so that we can cover the war."

Meredith leans her head toward me. She reaches into her shorts' pocket, pulls out a rubber band, and ties up her hair into a ponytail, again baring her shaven armpits. Her arms and legs move sensuously. "I'm impressed. So you're going to make us all famous? Put us on TV?"

"I'm in the print side," I say. "But I'll make you famous."

"All right," Meredith says, cheerily. "So how long have you been here?"

"This is my second day…first time I've gone running. Have you been on this route before?"

"I've been here three days, and I've taken the course each day."

"Good, you can show me the route."

"What do you have on there," she says, pointing at my music player.

"Springsteen, Sinatra, Carly Simon…it's kind of a mix."

Meredith's face is puzzled. "Never heard of them."

"Well, I'll introduce you," I say.

"All right," she says. She turns to start running. "Are you coming? I don't like running alone."

I reach down to my sneaker. There are pebbles in it, and I take the shoe off to remove the pebbles. "Hang on a moment," I say.

"I'll wait for you," Meredith says.

That sets off a song memory. I look up at her, and say, "The next line is, 'If I should fall behind, wait for me.'"

"Excuse me?"

"It's on my music player," I say. "It's a Bruce Springsteen song." I sing the line. "'I'll wait for you. If I should fall behind, wait for me.'"

She ponders that for a moment. "All right," she says. "I like that."

We set off into the dark forest. Mist is rising up from the ground as our sneakers hit the shingle track, which winds past pine trees. Meredith puts on a good pace. I can keep up with her, but I can't talk. We charge past thick undergrowth. The only sound is the crash of our feet on the route and the answering whistles of birds.

At two-and-a-half miles, a small lake appears on our left, and Meredith pulls up to stop. She points at the lake. A log sits overlooking it. On the lake, swans, ducks, and geese parade about. In the distance stand white-capped mountains. "I like to stop here for a few minutes," she says. "It's so peaceful and quiet." She slaps her hands on her hips, lets out a four-note whistle, and the mockingjays in the trees pick it up and answer it.

"I've heard that whistle before," I say. "On television."

"You heard it during the 74th Hunger Games," Meredith says. "My little cousin Rue whistled it. Then Katniss Everdeen repeated it when she was dying."

"And that's why you joined the rebellion," I say.

Meredith turns away from the geese and right at me, hands still on hips, her eyes wide. "You're very sharp," she says.

"I'm a journalist," I say. "I have to be able to figure things out." I pause. "Was that the reason?"

"One of them. I had several reasons. I'm into multiple causes for everything. But yes, Rue getting reaped into that arena and getting butchered so that some lazy, rich people could enjoy it was a big one. That was the first cause, not the immediate stressor."

"There were others?"

"Are you writing a story about me?" Meredith asks, with a mocking smile.

"Actually, I'm genuinely interested," I say. "The story might come later."

"Really," she says, stepping toward me. "Interested in what?"

"Interested in you," I say, smiling slightly.

She playfully taps my arm. "You have your swirl on?" she asks.

"Actually, I've only dated black girls. Ever since I was a kid," I answer.

She smiles again, revealing her white teeth. "So you were indeed checking me out back there," she says.

I redden.

"Only dated sisters? And you're from District 2, the land of the blonde giants? And you've lived to tell the tale. This I'd like to hear."

I feel self-conscious, unsure what to do. Meredith smacks my playfully on the arm. "Come on, let's go." She jogs off down the trail, and I chase after her, and keep up with her to the end of the trail.

At the end of the route, we stretch again. Meredith's tank top is damp from sweat and exertion and clings hungrily to her breasts. I try to keep my eyes locked on her brown eyes. I do not want her to think I'm checking her out.

"We must do this again," I say.

"I'm not planning to go anywhere…at least until training's complete," Meredith says. "I have to learn to play my role in this war." She bends over to touch her toes. I can't help it. I have to look. Her rump is pert and firm.

"'All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players, they have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages,'" I say, trying to find something to think about besides Meredith's body.

She flies back up and stares at me, hair tossing. "Shakespeare. **As You Like It**," she gasps. "You're the first person I've met besides my school teacher who knew Shakespeare."

"You know Shakespeare?"

"I have a couple of volumes of him in my barracks room," Meredith says. "I have his sonnets."

I must look blank. Meredith laughs. "His poems. His love poems."

"Shakespeare wrote love poems?" I blurt out. "I didn't know that."

"You're the newspaperman and you don't know about Shakespeare's poems?"

"I know about a few of his plays," I say, stunned. "And some of his quotes. How did you…when did he…write sonnets?"

Meredith smiles again. I am beginning to lose myself in that smile. She takes out her hair ribbon and tosses her hair out again, and puts her hands on her hips, authoritatively. "Yes, he wrote love poems. About a fair man and a dark woman. If you're nice to me, I'll let you read them."

"And what do you want in return?"

She taps my music player. "I want to know what you've got going on there. Springsteen and Sinatra. Whoever they are."

"You didn't have music in District 11?"

Her face falls, and her voice turns chilly. She folds her arms over her chest. "We have starvation and overwork in District 11. No music players and chips. But we have music. Sometimes, music is all we have."

My lips purse. This could go bad really quickly. "I'm sorry," I say. "I often forget that District 2 enjoys a privileged status." I kick at the ground and look down, sheepish. "Look, I don't know much about District 11. Or any of the other districts, really. The only thing I see is the…"

"I know, I know, the Hunger Games. The reapings. The interviews with the Tributes. The tours."

I look back into her eyes. She's a little annoyed. This is a feature in the girls I have dated. They are quick to anger. But then, even in the favored District 2, there's lots to be angry about. Maybe I can fix this. "So tell a guy who has absolutely no knowledge of District 11 what kind of music you have. In District 11."

"We have gospel music and spirituals, we have rap, we have jazz, we even have rock music. We sing while we work in the fields and orchards, and we dance at night under the trees, when we're not working," Meredith says, sounding a little amused by my ignorance. "But no music chips to put them on."

"Maybe you can teach me some gospel songs," I say. "I'm not much of a singer, though. I have other qualities, though."

"Maybe that can happen," she says.

"What are you doing the rest of the day?" I hear myself asking impulsively.

"I was going to take a shower, and eat some breakfast. After that, I hadn't thought that far ahead."

"I'd like to see the Shakespeare volumes," I say.

"Why don't we meet up for breakfast and then you can come up to my room?" Meredith says.

"Holy shit," Archer says. "All you did was run three miles with her and she invited you up to her room? Damn, she was easy!"

The train is rattling along, and our breakfast nearly done.

"It wasn't like that," I say. "We could come and go to other trainees' rooms at any time, except after 'lights out.' It was to build up a sense of unity and teamwork. We could study together or just socialize."

"Yeah, but she invited you right up?"

"Again, it wasn't what you're thinking. All the trainees had to keep their doors open except after 'lights out,' and there were frequent room inspections," I say. "Even the most overheated couple couldn't have had a 'quickie' if they wanted to."

"Glad I wasn't an officer," Archer says. "So what was to stop a couple from going off in the bushes somewhere and getting it on?"

"If a male trainee laid a hand on a female trainee or vice versa, the offender would have been drummed out. Or both," I say. "Gus Lewis was in charge of the training, and he had no tolerance for trainee sex. He didn't even like trainee romances. Just to make sure, nobody was issued any kind of birth control. He wanted us to be afraid of getting a girl pregnant."

"I guess you had no pregnancies."

"None. Gus wanted camaraderie, not kisses."

"What could be better camaraderie than being in love," Archer says. "I'd fight for my woman a lot harder."

"You don't understand the war," I say again. "This wasn't a Hunger Game, where the only thing at stake is the lives of the contestants. Gus Lewis told us at the very start, if we didn't give the training everything we had, we could lose the war. The tyranny would go on forever. Millions of innocent people would die. Most of the surviving rebels would get turned into Avoxes…and those would be the lucky ones. You…you have to understand just how desperate and critical the war was…how much was at stake. Gus didn't want to lose the war because a girl got knocked up. Everything was on the line, and he wanted everyone focused on fighting the war."

"Maybe you should be telling me about that as well."

I shake my head. "I have enough problems with the nightmares."

"All right, tell me about Meredith."

The train races under a bridge, and the lights flash out for a moment. When they come back on, I am back with Meredith at the running course.

"Sure. I'll bring my music, too," I say.

"All right," Meredith says, smiling.

"And again, I'm sorry about my ignorance...look, I grew up in District 2, and my father was a Peacekeeper, so we had a few luxuries…but, that doesn't mean we didn't have tough times, either. I saw people get whipped for stealing food or just mouthing off about how bad things were. Stonecutters' kids. Miners' kids. Maybe you can tell me how hard it was."

Meredith looks away for a moment, then right back at me. She drops her arms, and moves toward me, and sighs. "Actually, in my immediate family, it wasn't that bad. I even had a car."

"You can drive?" I blurt out. "How did you get a car?"

She taps me on the chest. "It was assigned to me, as assistant business administrator. So I could get around the District to find out what was going on."

"Well, then, you're already one up on me," I say. "I've never even been in a car. See? District 2 doesn't really conquer the world. Just the Hunger Games."

Meredith laughs.

"I've been looking for you," shouts another female voice, aimed at me. I turn around, and Kae Lyn, wearing a robe over her one-piece swimsuit, sandals flapping, comes sauntering up. Her hair is done in a weave, straightening it, and she is soaked. Kae Lyn hates running. She has spent her early morning doing a few laps in the barracks pool.

"Who's this?" Meredith asks, her voice raising in pitch.

Is she getting jealous? After one trip around the jogging course? Interesting, I think.

Kae Lyn is smaller than Meredith, somewhat darker, and a little more muscled. They stare at each other. Kae Lyn looks irritated. Meredith looks baffled.

Meredith points at us. "Are you two…" Her voice trails off.

"Meredith, I'd like you to meet my photographer. Kae Lyn Harrington. From District 3," I say, extending my left hand towards Kae Lyn. "And no, we're not involved."

**"**I thought we were going to breakfast," Kae Lyn says.

"And we are," I say. "And Meredith is joining us…"

And Meredith steps forward and touches Kae Lyn's hair, and says enthusiastically, "And I love how you did your weave! I want you to tell me how you did it!"

Kae Lyn is distracted. "I have a friend back in District 3 who did this for me before I joined up," she says. "It's not like what a Capitol stylist would do, but…"

"But I love it!" Meredith says. "Honestly! We don't have any hair styling in District 11!"

"Well, I think your hair is better," Kae Lyn says, "It's got a more natural look."

"Oh, thank you!" Meredith gushes. She takes Kae Lyn's hands. "I'm sorry I thought, well...Charlie, you should have told me." Meredith looks at me.

"I told Meredith I like the sisters," I say to Kae Lyn. "I didn't mention that you were one."

"So you two seem to have hit it off right away," Kae Lyn says coolly.

Now it's Meredith's turn to suffer a red face.

"I love being right all the time," Kae Lyn says, breaking into a smile.

"Why don't we all get cleaned up and regroup over breakfast," I say.

"All right," Meredith says, hands on hips. She swivels on her hips, and slowly walks away, back toward the barracks, her hips lightly twitching. She throws me a smile as she retreats.

"You're hot for her," Kae Lyn says.

I can't lie to Kae Lyn. We've only been together for three weeks, but she's figured me out. She can see the world through her camera lens. "Yeah," I say. "She's pretty sharp, too. And she likes Shakespeare."

"God, I love being right all the time," Kae Lyn repeats, shaking her head. Then she looks hard at me. "Someone besides you knows Shakespeare? This alone I have to see."

I watch Meredith disappear into the barracks. For a moment, I imagine the running shorts sliding down her long, shapely legs, and wonder what's underneath.

"Do you think she was sincere when she said she liked my weave?" Kae Lyn asks. "Or do you think she was trying to relieve the tension?"

"Both," I say. "She's into multiple causes."

Kae Lyn folds her arms together. "Well, I'll tell you this…she recovered well."

"Did she sound sincere?" I ask.

"She sounded like she was trying," Kae Lyn says. "But if you're wondering about the important subject, yes, I think she's into you." She pauses. "What was her body language like when you met her?"

"She kept tugging on her hair and raising her arms to show me her armpits," I say. "She leaned toward me. And she tapped my arm."

"Very observant," Kae Lyn says.

"I'm a good reporter," I say. "What does that mean?"

"She's definitely into you," Kae Lyn says. "Innocent touches means she likes you. Tossing her hair and showing her armpits is to attract your attention."

"She got mine."

Kae Lyn smacks me on the rump. "Then go get her, Tiger. I think the odds are definitely in your favor. God, I love being right all the time." She heads back to the barracks to get changed, then turns toward me. "And what is it with you and the sisters?" she asks.

"What is it with you and the sisters," Archer asks.

I tell him how I had no girlfriends growing up, until Helen Crosby walked over to my lunch table at school and asked me out on a dare from her friends.

"What happened with that," Archer says.

"We went out for a while, and had some good times, and…"

"And it didn't last," Archer says. "Your family objected?"

"Her family objected," I say. "My parents didn't care. My mother was starting to get the breast cancer that killed her. They had more important things to think about than who I was dating. Do you really have to know all this shit?"

"Sorry. I'm just Ace being Ace," Archer says. "And don't forget, I'm a journalist, too. I want to know the story."

I clang my fork and knife together, having cleaned my plate.

"So what happened with Meredith," Archer asks, as we rise from the dining car to return to more comfortable seats in the passenger car.

"We went to breakfast, the three of us, and were joined by a couple more new trainees."

"How was she with Kae Lyn?" Archer asks.

"They were nervous with each other," I say. "But Meredith was really interested in Kae Lyn's weave, so they talked about that for awhile, and then about music. Turned out they knew some of the same songs, which really amazed me, when you consider how split the Districts are."

"So then what happened?"

"I went up to Meredith's room, and she introduced me to Shakespeare's sonnets, which I had never read before."

"We have a room in the Hall of Justice in my District that is full of old books," Meredith says, as she produces the Shakespeare volume from her locker. "Nobody reads them. Since I worked there, I went up into the room one day, and found this. I don't think anybody cared that I took it."

"We have a room like that in our Hall of Justice, too," I say. "A lot of the books we had were history books, which must have been centuries old. Some atlases, too. Of course, nobody has any maps in the districts, so nothing made sense."

She and I are both wearing the gray officer trainee uniforms that we have been issued, and are required to wear when not doing physical training. The uniforms manage to make us look unattractive. I am sitting on her bunk. She sits down next to me.

I flip through it. Sure enough, the poems are about a "dark lady" and a "fair man."

"I had no idea that he wrote these," I say. "I've read some of his plays. I know there are others that I haven't read."

"I think the Capitol tries to keep a clamp down on knowledge, in its efforts to keep the Districts suppressed," Meredith says. "Ignorance is strength for a tyranny."

She pauses on a page in the book. "This sonnet is my favorite. Number 18."

She reads it to me.

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?  
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:  
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,  
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:  
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,  
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;  
And every fair from fair sometime declines,  
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;  
But thy eternal summer shall not fade  
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;  
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,  
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:  
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,  
So long lives this and this gives life to thee."

"That's lovely," I say. "I've never heard or read that before. Have you read **Henry V**?"

Meredith shakes her head. "I've never even heard of it."

"It's about an outnumbered English army fighting a war against a much larger French army, and defeating it. It has great speeches about courage, honor, and warfare. I brought my copy with me. It's kind of appropriate to what we're doing, training for war. I'll bring it over."

"It's such a shame that all the cultural knowledge we have is scattered and in pieces," Meredith says. "Maybe if we defeat the Capitol, we can put knowledge back together."

"I think keeping people ignorant was part of the Capitol's plan to dominate us," I say. "That and the Hunger Games."

Meredith sighs. "A very efficient means of holding people in line. We can take your children at random, and force them to fight each other to the death, while we look on and laugh."

"And in the 75th Hunger Games, they took the winners. Even winning the Hunger Games doesn't keep you alive," I say. "Total domination."

"Not if we win the war," Meredith says, her voice firm. "But if we lose, it will go on, all night forever."

"So your cousin was Rue?" I ask.

Meredith nods. Her voice is quiet and soft. "She was always tiny. She was the pet and the baby of our family. When she was reaped for the Hunger Games, the whole family was furious. I wanted to volunteer, but they don't take 28-year-olds, of course."

"I remember watching that at the time," I say. "She seemed so fragile. And I was amazed that nobody volunteered. In my District, ten girls would have had a snarling catfight to replace her."

"I was there at her reaping, of course," Meredith says, her voice cracking slightly, her hair bobbing. "I was below the stage, in my capacity as assistant business administrator, when they called her name. She mounted the stage, and there was this dead silence from the crowd. They asked for volunteers, and nobody moved. The only sound was the wind. She had five brothers and sisters. All younger than her. She was only 12."

Her voice is cracking harder. "And not one person in the crowd moved. I remember thinking, 'What's the matter with you? Rue can't survive the Hunger Games.' There were plenty of big, strong, girls, who could have replaced her. But nobody moved." She steps off the bed, and goes over to the bathroom, returning with pieces of toilet paper, dabbing her eyes.

"What did you do?" I ask, rising to face Meredith.

"Well, I moved up to the line of Peacekeepers in front of me. I had this wild idea that I would volunteer, and they stopped me. One of the Peacekeepers said, 'You're 28, Meredith, step back.' And I realized how foolish I was, and I…stepped back. Then they called Thresh out."

"Are you related to him, too?"

"No. But I wasn't surprised that nobody volunteered in his case. Thresh was…" She trails off. "Thresh was able to take care of himself. He was kind of like the guy I was supposed to marry."

She flops down in a chair opposite me. I am finding Meredith increasingly complex and increasingly fascinating. "Supposed to marry?" I ask.

"Supposed to marry?" Archer asks. "This is better than the Capitol's soap operas."

Our train is racing along the south side of a river, past more ancient ruins. There are ruins on the south bank and even more on the north bank. Suddenly out of nowhere appears a massive brown stone suspension bridge, covered with vines and ivy, slowly disintegrating. On the north side, next to the bridge, stands the remains of what appears to be some kind of stadium. It's the remains of Cincinnati, I think, remembering the ancient atlases I used to look at. Yes, Cincinnati, Ohio. And that must be the great suspension bridge that was built there centuries ago. Another great work by our predecessors on this continent, allowed to fall into ruin in the chaos that led to Panem. Without effort, everything collapses. Everything falls into chaos. You have to work as hard as you can, just to keep the barest essentials of life alive. To keep hope alive.

"Supposed to marry," I repeat.

"Supposed to marry," Meredith says. She smiles. "No, I'm not spoken for." She leans forward. "And I take it you're not."

"I wouldn't be here if I was," I say, leaning forward myself. "I've never been a player."

"A gentleman," she says, smiling. "All right. That's refreshing. We don't have too many gentlemen in District 11."

"There aren't too many in District 2, either," I say. "Or in the Capitol. Or anywhere else, I suspect."

Meredith sits back in her chair. "Obviously you want to hear my story," she says.

I smile back. "If you show me yours, I'll show you mine," I say. "Besides, I said I was going to make you famous."

She laughs. "All right. But you had better show me yours."

"I've got all day," I say.

And she tells me her story.

District 11 is a land of farms and orchards, and the owners of the farms and orchards must sell their crop to the Capitol's purchasing agents, at the prices the Capitol's purchasing agents dictate. This guarantees that both the farm owners live in bare comfort and their armies of workers live in dire poverty, and at the edge of starvation.

"What happened if a farm owner tried to negotiate with the purchasing agents," I ask.

"The Peacekeepers would whip the farmer and throw him or her into the stocks," Meredith says.

I have seen whippings in District 2. I have a sudden vision of Daddy whipping Meredith, of her backside bare and carved open by my father's lash.

Meredith sees me shaking. "Are you all right?"

"My father was a Peacekeeper," I say, my voice shaking. "I just had this vision…"

Meredith looks at me popeyed. "Did he serve in District 11?"

"I have no idea. He never told me anything about what he did."

"You can show me yours later," Meredith says. "I do want to hear about it."

Otis and Ruth Jackson, Meredith's great-grandparents, both now 93, own not one, but six farms and four orchards in District 11, which puts them several economic steps above the vast mass of District 11 residents.

"They remember life before the Capitol took over," I say.

"They remember it as children," Meredith says. "I'm told that Otis's great-grandparents were very rich, and lived in a city called Atlanta, but their home and fortune was wiped out by the wars. Grandpa's earliest memory is riding in a horse-drawn wagon, entering District 11, when they had just set it up. Apparently they owned some land there, which became our farms and orchards."

"Your great-grandparents are still around? At 93? I don't know anybody older than 75," I say.

"Maybe you should do a story on them," she says, smiling.

"If I could get out to District 11, I would," I say. "Maybe after the war."

Meredith is the oldest of six siblings. Three sisters and two brothers. Her father runs the farms. Her mother teaches in the school. When she doesn't have to work in the fields or orchards.

"Does everybody have to work in the fields and orchards," I ask.

"When they need to harvest the crops, everyone's out there. Sometimes until 2 a.m.," Meredith answers, her teeth grinding. I wish I had my notebook.

"Hang on a second," Archer says. "She just told you her whole family story, all that morning? A guy she'd just run with for three miles?"

"Do you want to hear this story or not?" I ask.

"Well, it's damn fascinating, but I'm just amazed she opened up to you like that."

"So was I," I say.

"I can't believe you're opening up to me like this," I say.

"Actually, I have a few reasons for opening up to you like this," Meredith says, tossing her hair, leaning forward. "But I'm only going to tell you a couple of them."

"Which are?"

"First, if you watch television, they make District 11 look like a jungle and District 12 like a bunch of hillbillies. Now that I'm here, I want to show people that is not the case."

"So you're an ambassador for your District," I say. "I guess I'm doing the same thing…trying to show that District 2 is not made up of cruel Hunger Games Tributes and sadistic Peacekeepers. What're the other reasons?"

"Second, I happen to like telling people my story, and third, I think you seem interested in it. You did ask."

"Are there any other reasons?"

Meredith smiles. "None that I'm going to tell you just yet."

"Oh, woman of mystery."

"I like to keep a few secrets."

"Most of the girls I know like to tell their stories after we've had sex," Archer says. An attendant walks by and sells us each a can of soda. "The problem is, after I've had sex, I just want to fall asleep."

Archer drinks some of his soda. "So what about this guy she was supposed to marry."

"We have arranged marriages in District 11," Meredith says. "Not all the time. Just among the elite and when they want to. It's a just another tool to keep us in line. No matter how important we are…we're still under the Capitol."

"Wow. They didn't do that in District 2," I say.

"Probably to keep the teenagers from being distracted from training for the Hunger Games or as Peacekeepers," Meredith says.

"I never thought of that," I say.

"I was affianced at age 10. That was the usual age. Dwayne Williams. His family owned some farms, too. My parents thought – and the Mayor and the Head Peacekeeper at the time agreed – that the match would be economically beneficial for both of our families."

"But you didn't marry him," I say.

Meredith shakes her head. "His whole family died one night when influenza swept through our district. Next morning, when they didn't come to work, the Peacekeepers went out to their home and found their bodies. I was 17."

"I'm sorry," I say. "That must have been horrible."

Meredith stares up at the ceiling, then looks back at me. "The funny thing is, I was never in love with Dwayne. I don't think he loved me, either. I actually mostly felt relief at the time."

"That you didn't have to marry him."

Meredith nods. "Now that I'm older, I feel a little guilty about that."

"You had no control over any of that," I say. Impulsively, I lean forward and grasp her hands. "I felt the same way when my mother died of breast cancer. I thought I'd given it to her somehow. It took me a long time to realize that I didn't."

We both realize that our faces are inches apart, and we are holding hands. It's too early for that, for both of us. I'm stunned at my own impetuosity. Back in District 2, I never moved this fast on a potential girlfriend.

Meredith looks down at our entwined hands, then back up at my face with another impish smile. "You planned that, didn't you?"

"What?" I withdraw my hands and move back from her.

"You move right along, don't you?" Meredith says, smiling. "You see your opportunities and you take them."

"I didn't mean to," I say. "You just seemed upset…"

"And you instinctively wanted to save me," Meredith cuts in. "That's interesting."

"You haven't had a guy instinctively want to save you before?"

Meredith laughs. "Not that I can remember. But I also don't remember a time when I needed saving. I took care of myself."

"Well, maybe I'll have to save you on a battlefield somewhere."

"Maybe I'll be the one that saves you," Meredith says, pointing at me. "Did you ever think of that?"

I laugh. "I never thought I needed saving, either."

Meredith leans forward. "Enough of my scary stories. It's time you started talking instead of interviewing me."

"What do you want to know?"

"You said your father was a Peacekeeper?"

"Just like his father," I say. "And his father before him. And his father before that."

"Four generations of sadists. So how come you broke the string and joined the rebellion?" Meredith asks.

"The Hunger Games sickened me," I say. "The whole District was about young men and women training to kill other young men and women their own age for sport, and I never saw that as being entertaining. When the rebellion came along, I thought there was a chance to put an end to it."

"What did your father think of you joining the rebellion?"

I look down at Meredith's palms, which are open and facing me. "He encouraged me to join the rebellion."

"Sounds like he had some character."

I shake my head. "I don't know. Daddy's a mystery to me. I don't know anything about what he did as a Peacekeeper. All I know is that he loves golf and took really good care of Mommy when she was dying."

Meredith props her head on her hands. "And how long have you been a journalist?"

"Oh, I've been running – I should say, I did run – District 2's newsletter for the last five years. I've been working there since I graduated from high school. I just like writing and finding things out."

"And what is it with you and the sisters?"

I lean back on Meredith's bed and laugh. "That's what you really want to know, isn't it?"

"It's not very common in District 11. I mean, it happens, but I haven't seen that much of it. But, remember, we have arranged marriages. Things like that are either set up or done on the down-low."

"There was nothing to it. Girls in District 2 wanted to date the man who would either win the Hunger Games or get that big Peacekeeper pension. White and black. All the white girls I asked out turned me down, sometimes very harshly. Sometimes their boyfriends did it for them."

"What did they do?"

I laugh, in spite of the pain. "Threaten to use me as a training dummy for their Hunger Games practice, what else?"

Meredith laughs, too. "So what happened?"

"There was this black girl in my school, Helen Crosby, who just walked over to my lunch table one day and asked me out."

"She was your first sister?"

"She was the first girl I ever dated," I said. "Period."

"You said the girls were all chasing the would-be Peacekeepers. I thought Peacekeepers couldn't get married."

"I knew a lot of Peacekeepers who had families. They would come back to District 2 after putting in their 20 years, often with wives and kids. The Peacekeeper kids looked at me funny, because I didn't want to become one. So that custom is honored in the breach."

"'But to my mind, — though I am native here and to the manner born, — it is a custom more honour'd in the breach than the observance,'" recites Meredith, "**Hamlet**, Act One, Scene Four."

"You know **Hamlet**," I say.

"And **MacBeth**," Meredith answers. "So Peacekeepers really do get married?"

"I went to Peacekeeper picnics and retirement parties when I was a kid, and they had wives and husbands and children. I played with the kids. I just don't know how they got around the rule. I once asked Daddy, and he told me not to ask damn fool questions."

"Scandal in District 2," Meredith says, giggling. "I love it. So you didn't get any dates?"

"I got a lot of rejections. Then Helen walked across the room…"

"What did she look like?" Meredith cuts in. "Describe her. I mean, she set your standard."

"She was 16, obviously," I say. "We both were. She had straight, black hair that went down to her shoulders – I think she used relaxers…"

"You had relaxers in District 2?" Meredith gasps.

"We had a lot of personal beauty products, especially for teenagers. To get them ready to look good in the Hunger Games."

She looks down at her fingernails, which are worn and battered. "We have virtually no beauty products in District 11. I used to watch the Hunger Games ceremonies, and wonder how I'd look if I ever got to meet stylists and beauticians like the Tributes have. It almost made me want to be a Tribute. That's kind of why I was interested in how your friend Kae Lyn did her weave."

"I think you look pretty damn good without any make-up at all," I say. "You have a real natural beauty."

Meredith looks up at me and flashes me that smile, which has hooked me. "Thank you," she says. "So what happened with Helen Crosby?"

"She asked me if I wanted to go out with her that Saturday night. She was sweet, she was nervous, she was scared…"

"And she was hot, I'll bet," Meredith says.

"She was hot," I say. "And I took her out. Picked her up at her house, walked her over to the movie theater we had in the mountain…"

"Movie theater in the mountain?"

"There's a mountain in the middle of District 2, which is the military headquarters for Panem. It has a lot of entertainment facilities that Peacekeepers and their families can use, and that includes a movie theater, a couple of restaurants, even a nightclub."

"Damn, there are a lot of fringe benefits for being a Peacekeeper!" Meredith shouts.

"Well, I think the Capitol needed carrots for the guys who wielded the stick," I say.

"Our nightclub in District 11 leaked in the rain," Meredith says. "And we never had a movie theater." She shakes her head. "So who paid?"

"I did. I was a gentleman."

"Of course," Meredith says, sounding pleased. "All right."

"And then I walked Helen home, and she admitted that she'd been dared by her pals to ask me out, and that if I'd said no, she wouldn't have been offended, but she had such a good time, she wanted to see me again."

"And did you?"

"We did…we went out for five months."

"But it didn't last," Meredith says. "Your parents objected?"

"Her parents objected," I say. "They didn't trust me. I was both white and the son of a Peacekeeper."

Meredith flops back in her chair, and stares out the open door for what seems to be an eternity. Then she looks back at me. "I'm sorry that had to happen to you," she says.

"It happened a couple more times," I say. "But…when I look back, I'm not sure if those girls were…my life partners."

"Because of who they were, not because of what they looked like."

"Right," I say.

"But you were hooked," she says, looking back at me.

"I was hooked. I never looked back."

"And you're here now."

"I'm here now," I say. "Does that bother you?"

"Does what bother me?" She looks puzzled.

"Me being here? Taking up your whole morning? Telling you that you're good-looking? Being the son of a Peacekeeper? Being white?"

She taps my arm. "I don't know yet. But I'd like to find out."

I hear a loud female voice in the hallway. "Charlie? Meredith? Are you up here?"

Kae Lyn, in trainee gray like the two of us, strides into the room, her camera around her neck. "Have you two been sitting here all morning?" she asks.

Meredith glances at a clock on the wall. "Lunchtime already?"

"Yes, I'm starving, and I don't feel like eating alone." She points at me. "And there's a girl who just arrived, from District 10, who wants to meet you and be interviewed for a story, so I think we should get some work done as well."

"Sure," I say, rising. "We can do it right after lunch. What's her name?"

"Jennifer Murray," Kae Lyn says. "Lord, her voice is piercing." She waggles her finger at the two of us. "What have you two been doing all morning?"

"Talking about District 11 and District 2," I say. "Did you know they have arranged marriages in District 11?"

Kae Lyn recoils. "I can't think of too many things worse than that."

"A good number of the arranged marriages didn't happen for one reason or another," Meredith says. "There were ways people could get out of them."

"But still," Kae Lyn says. "So, who's up for lunch. Charlie, if you want to do this interview, you'd better get your notebooks."

Meredith and I rise to our feet. "Okay, I'll stop in my room. Besides, I owe you some music and **Henry V**."

"You go ahead," Meredith says. "I want to talk to Kae Lyn for a minute. Girl talk."

I shrug my shoulders. "Okay," I say. I walk out of the room, and head down the hall. Behind me I hear feminine whispering and laughter. I turn around to see Meredith and Kae Lyn outside of the room, laughing. Kae Lyn gives Meredith a knowing look, then walks down the hall toward me, eyes down at the floor, a mischievous smile on her face.

"What was that about?" I ask her.

"That was between us girls," Kae Lyn says. "Nothing to see here." She pauses, and looks at me, smiling. "God, I love being right all the time." Then she walks ahead of me and down the hall.

"What," I say. I look back, and Meredith has gone back into her room. Then back at Kae Lyn. "What, what were you talking about?" I trot down the stairs after Kae Lyn.

"And did you ever find out what they were talking about?" Archer asks.

"I never did," I say.

"You hit it right off," he says, shaking his head with amazement. "It's like one of those round pegs in a round hole. I can see how you were attracted to each other."

"It sort of went on like that after that," I say. "It just got better and better, and we got closer and closer. Except when I was doing a story with Kae Lyn, we did everything together after that."

"I want to hear the rest of this."

I glance down at my watch. "That's going to have to wait."

"What are you talking about?"

Before I can answer, the conductor strides into the passenger car, yelling, "District 12 in 15 minutes! District 12 in 15 minutes! Please make sure you have taken all your belongings with you! The local time is 12:37 p.m. District 12 in 15 minutes!"

Archer and I leap up and head back to our compartment to collect our kit. "We'll finish this later," I say.

"Hell, yes, this is more interesting than the fucking Mockingjay," he says.

I give him a look. Interesting, maybe. Important, no way.

As we change cars, I get my first taste of District 12. It is the harsh stench of coal dust. The train rolls through a gap, and the odor goes stronger. The train slows down.

"This is the 'undiscovered country,'" I say to Archer.

"What?" he asks.

"The undiscovere'd country, from whose bourn

No traveller returns, puzzles the will,

And makes us rather bear those ills we have

Than fly to others that we know not of?

Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of resolution

Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,

And enterprises of great pitch and moment

With this regard their currents turn awry

And lose the name of action," I recite.

Archer winces. "What does that mean?"

"It means we are in a place from which people do not return," I say.

"People go back and forth between the Capitol and District 12 all the time," Archer says.

"But not with what we came here to get. Even the President couldn't get this story. We have to get this done, and do it properly. Let's do our jobs and get home," I say.

"I'm right behind you," Archer answers.


	8. Chapter 8

**INTERVIEW WITH THE MOCKINGJAY – Chapter 8**

With the whoosh of air brakes, the train comes to a halt in District 12's station, and Archer and I hop out and onto the platform. Scores of trucks, mobile cranes, and forklifts stand before us, along with yellow-hatted industrial workers of both sexes. They ignore us and race to the freight cars, where crewmen rip open doors. In less than a minute, the workers are unloading construction materials on the forklifts and cranes, loading supplies into trucks. Others form columns, passing huge boxes to each other and on to the trucks.

Archer alertly snaps away with his camera, while I grab a worker, who comes striding down the platform, yelling encouragement to his crew, clapping his hands.

"What's going on," I ask the worker, a bearded mass of muscle.

"We're behind schedule," he drawls. "Let's go, let's go," he yells at his colleagues, clapping his hands. "You guys are great! It's Wednesday in District 12! Good day, good day to work!"

"What is all this," I ask.

"Most of it is for the new homes for the residents," the worker says. "Let's go, it's a great day!"

I flip out my notebook. "What's your name? Where are you from?"

"Sam Horn. I manage the project. I'm originally from District 8. Who are you?"

"My name's Charlie Allbright, and I'm from the **Panem Times**. I'm doing stories about District 12 and its re-construction."

The worker brightens. He's happy to see me, which is good. "We don't get too many reporters out here. Commissioner Davis usually throws them right back on the train," Horn says. "You guys are brave." He spits out some chewing tobacco on the ground, and smiles for Archer, who obediently snaps a photograph.

"You come by my office and I'll give you the lowdown on the houses. We should be ready to open the place in just a few days. We're doing great around here! Super job by a super team!"

"What happens then?" I ask.

"We move on to the other projects going right here…we have to finish the shopping center."

"Why are you a month behind?" I ask.

"We had to do the power and water hook-ups completely from scratch. There was practically no running water here when we started, and the electrical grid was bombed to shit. I thought we were deprived in District 8, but this place is incredible.

"But I want you to know, and you can put this in the paper," he stabs at my notebook, "My boys and girls have been working 12-hour shifts, seven days a week. We're a month behind schedule, but we when we first looked over the situation, we estimated we were six months behind schedule. I can't talk enough about my workers. You find me at the construction site, and I'll show you how we saved five months off that fuck-up," Horn says.

The workers are done, and the trucks are pulling away. Horn sprints over to his truck, hops up into the cab and points at me. "Just come over to that site, and ask for Sam Horn. I want you to see how good a job we're doing."

"Thanks," I yell. The trucks drive off, leaving clouds of dirt and dust. As the smoke blows away, we get our first look at District 12's downtown.

It's another bunch of blasted ruins, this pile smaller than the piles of rubble we saw earlier while en route, and newer, covered with coal dust. It still smells harsh and fresh. Over it is the stink of coal. In the distance, we can make out shiny new buildings. Clearly, the new rulers of District 12 have chosen to build their new downtown on a different site from the old downtown.

With the trucks and people gone, the station and its area are empty. Nobody there to meet us or pick up our bags.

The stationmaster walks up to us and our bags, which have been unceremoniously dumped on the platform. "These yours," he asks.

"Yes…can we leave them here?"

The stationmaster looks at me studiously and folds his arms. "Well, what's to ensure that you'll come back for them?"

I reach into my wallet and give the man some money. He smiles. "Thank you, sir. They'll stay here."

"What do we do now," Archer says.

"Let's head into town, and find Commissioner Davis. He knows we're coming, and he's supposed to arrange for our accommodation."

"We just walk into town and announce ourselves," Archer says.

"Something like that, yes," I answer.

Archer throws his hands up in the air. "Behold, we are the messengers from the **Panem Times**, bringing the truth of the word!" he shouts out, with glee.

"You're nuts," I say, without looking up, as we trudge through the ruined square.

Beyond the wreckage stand a string of pre-fabricated buildings, all built out of modular construction.

I look around the wreckage. It's smaller, of course, than the shattered cities we have seen, but we were separated from those ruins by the windows of the train. Now we can scrape at the destruction beneath our shoes and smell the harsh odor of rubble, coal, melted iron, and charred wood. At least I don't smell the distinctive and familiar odor of burned or decomposing human remains.

Archer starts snapping pictures of the ruins. "Do you know what these were?" he asks.

"No, we'll find out." I stare at a heap of blackened rubble. It looks like the tape I saw of the Justice Building, where Katniss Everdeen was reaped, not once, but twice. Then past some more ruins, towards a melted lump of a bakery oven. I point it out to Archer. "Get a photo of this. I think this was the Mellark family bakery here."

Archer drops down on one knee and fires off a shot of my finger pointing out the ruins.

There's another hunk of metal behind me, and I inspect that. It looks deadly and familiar. Not part of the bakery. An outdoors item. Then I realize it's the base for a gallows. People got hanged in District 2 periodically, despite our favored status.

I feel like I'm walking through another battlefield, and realize that I am.

"Boss, let's get the hell out of here," Archer says.

"A wise idea," I answer, and we walk out of the square, past the ruined houses, towards the modular buildings. They are all identical…made of corrugated steel, concrete, and fiberglass, in neat rows, along a paved road full of potholes. The buildings along the road are all clearly temporary. None of them are marked. There are no people about. Not only am I walking through a battlefield, I'm walking through a haunted battlefield.

Finally, we see a couple of people, District 12 residents, two men, identified by their dark hair and olive skin, sitting at an outdoor table in front of one of the buildings, playing a card game. They look up from their cards and stare at us as we walk past, their eyes cold and harsh. They do not speak

"What's with those guys?" Archer asks.

"They know the heat when they see it," I answer. "We're not going to find any friendly faces here."

I have no idea where to go or what to do. As we are about to turn back to the train station, to ask the stationmaster if he can help us out, I see a figure coming towards us down the road, seeming to be burdened under a heavy load.

The figure comes toward us, and I recognize her from the tapes…it's Katniss Everdeen, wearing that hunting jacket, carrying a small dead deer over her shoulders, hunched down by its weight. As she closes the range, I can see that she's carrying a bag over her left shoulder as well. Her hair is braided in the style that has become popular with every 16-year-old girl in the nation.

"It's Katniss," I say to Archer. "Let's go."

"Fantastic," he says. "We can get this party started right here and right now."

"No, we're not going to shove a notebook under her nose and ask her what she thinks of President Paylor," I retort. "Jesus Christ, try not to live up to all my expectations, Archer."

As I walk towards Katniss, he stands there, and snaps, "What the fuck does that mean?" He hustles after me.

"Just shut the hell up," I say to Archer, under my breath.

As I close in, Katniss looks up at me and stares into my face. There she is. The Mockingjay.

And her eyes are cold, gray, and piercing right into me. Like I'm fresh game that she's just spotted.

I stride up to her and say, "Miss Everdeen? I'm Charlie Allbright, from the **Panem Times**. My photographer, Ace Archer."

"Another reporter," she says, crisply.

"Perhaps I can help you…let me carry that deer for you," I say.

She looks at me warily. "Think you can handle this?"

I've carried larger things over my shoulders – dead and wounded Black Devils in the war. But I don't tell her that. "I can handle it," I say.

"A gentleman," she says, and shoves the deer onto my shoulders. I wrap it around my neck. It's extremely heavy, and still dripping blood. She hands the bag to Archer. "Squirrels," she says.

As the deer comes off of her shoulders, I see that she is wearing the original of the now-legendary Mockingjay pin on her hunting jacket.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Just follow me," she says.

"I hope you don't think I'm here to bother you," I say.

"Yes, you are. That's why I don't do interviews."

"I'm not doing an interview right now," I say. "We're just talking. Nothing we say is on the record until and unless you tell me it's on the record."

Katniss glares at me. "Good, because I don't want to go on the record."

Archer, wisely, is keeping his mouth shut, and his camera tucked away. We start walking in the direction Katniss came from, past the modular buildings.

"I tell you what," I say, "Why don't you interview me, and I'll tell you where I'm coming from, and then you can make up your own mind?"

"You mean you're letting me control this conversation?"

"Sure," I say. "My purpose in coming here is not to harm, vex, threaten, intimidate, control, or damage you."

"You have a way with words," she says, looking straight ahead.

"I'm a writer by trade. Have you read the **Panem Times** – I'm sorry, I'm supposed to be letting you ask the questions."

"We don't get the newspapers out here," Katniss answers, "And that's all right."

"So fire away."

"Why are you here?"

"Fair enough," I answer. The deer's blood is soaking into my jacket. "The paper wants to do a comprehensive and exclusive interview with you, to finally learn your story, in your own words, and your own terms. From start to finish. Nothing omitted. I'm to write the story, and Archer here is to photograph it."

"So what is the **Panem Times**?"

"It's the nation's newspaper of record," I say. "It was rebuilt after the war, under new management."

"And why does the nation's newspaper of record want to interview a crazy woman who killed the nation's president?" Katniss says.

"Well, that's a good reason right there," I say, trying to sound light. "But I don't think you're crazy. It's well-known in the Capitol that President Coin was going to reinstate the Hunger Games and be a new and improved dictator. A lot of people think you rendered the nation a signal service by getting rid of her."

"That's wonderful for a lot of people," Katniss says sarcastically. "But what does that have to do with me?"

I turn to face her, swinging the deer. "You are an inspiration to thousands and maybe millions of people," I say. I point at her pin. "Copies of that pin and jewelry of it are hot sellers in the Capitol and many of the Districts. Kids in schools write essays about you. Wear their hair like you. But nobody knows the real Katniss Everdeen."

"Maybe the real Katniss Everdeen wants to keep that to herself," she answers. She's trying to keep her intense anger at me under control, I think. Burying it in politeness. But it's a thin veil. I can see the sarcasm under her words. Like Marc Antony describing Brutus.

"And you have a right to do that," I say. "But I think the real Katniss Everdeen has her own message for the people of a nation who respect and admire her. And I think the real Katniss Everdeen's message could go a long way toward rebuilding this nation, healing the wounds, and restoring peace."

Katniss regards me, flipping her braided hair. "You're quite a speaker, Mister…Allbright?"

"Right. Charlie Allbright. And it was sincere, I assure you."

"And I've already been used to send all kinds of message for people who were just using me for their own little games," Katniss answers. "Why should I be a piece in your game?"

"I'm not playing a game," I say. "And you're not a piece. We do not want you to tell us anything but your own, personal story."

"But you do want me to say something in particular," she says, pointing at me. She may not have a huge education, but she's a smart kid. Well, she's had quite a learning experience.

I hesitate. "I won't lie to you. The President wants to know if you support the new government," I say. "They're afraid that if you are opposed to the government and its rebuilding efforts, it could set off another rebellion. So they would like you to support them."

"They think a rebellion would start because of me?" Katniss laughs. "Where have I heard that before?" She shakes her head. "And I'd like to stop having nightmares every night. Can you do something about that?"

Ouch. That's a hard one. Maybe honesty will help. "I have serious nightmares, too," I say.

"Yeah, I heard them last night," Archer says. "They're pretty damn loud."

"You have nightmares about people you know being killed and maimed?"

This time I stop. "All the time," I say. "I fought in the war, too." I touch the red arrow pin on my jacket. "I was in a parachute-infantry unit. The Black Devils. You may have heard of them."

She shakes her head.

"Their official name was the First Special Service Force."

"I vaguely remember someone mentioning them," Katniss says.

"I helped to liberate the Capitol. I was at the Presidential Palace when it fell."

Katniss's eyes widen. "You were there – when Prim…" she points at me.

"Yes, I was. Me and my photographer."

"This guy?" She points at Archer.

"No, my regular photographer," I say. "Archer is just a loaner. But, yes, I was there. I was in a few battles."

"You must tell me about them," Katniss says, her voice acrid.

"Well, when we get some time," I say.

"No, you must tell me about them," she repeats.

Oh, great, I think. This is going to be fun.

"I want to hear this, myself," Archer says. "Sorry," he adds.

"Ace has his anti-social moments, but we keep him around for his entertainment value," I say. "He's not a bad sort."

We walk between two buildings and onto a new, wide street, bordered by sidewalks and empty lots. In the distance stands a lone, stone building.

"What are they doing here?" I ask.

"This is where they will build the new town center," Katniss says.

"Where is everybody?" I ask. "I've seen barely any people since we got off the train."

No answer. Just the scrape of boots on the pavement, and the smell of coal.

"I'm asking the questions," Katniss says.

"Right," I say. "Fire away."

"Why is it so important that I lead this nation?" Katniss asks.

That's a tough one. Then I think of an answer. "Because you have become a great person, whether you like it or not, I'm afraid. But, 'be not afraid of greatness, some are born great, some achieve greatness, some have greatness thrust upon them.' You have done all three."

Katniss looks at me with some amazement. "Where does that come from?"

I smile. "William Shakespeare. **Twelfth Night**, Act II, Scene V."

Katniss shakes her head, and continues walking.

"Maybe this is your opportunity to send a message to the Capitol," I say. "I can craft that for you. Everyone from the people who clean the Capitol's streets to the President will read it."

Katniss purses her lips. "Interesting," she says.

We reach the stone building. "This is Peeta's bakery," she says.

"They built it here? Why? Where are the other stores?"

No answer.

We stop in front of the bakery. I peer inside. It has been done with wooden furnishings and subdued yellow lights, in what I think was called a Victorian style. Fresh rolls, crullers, and cakes sit in a refrigerated case in the shop window. Katniss tells me to wait here, climbs up the steps and enters the bakery. The smell of fresh bread wafts out of the bakery, replacing the stench of coal and rubble.

I turn to face Archer, my deer no longer dripping blood.

"You look ridiculous," Archer says. "What are you doing?"

"I'm being politic," I say. "We can't just get what we need by starting in and asking Katniss questions. She's been through horrific ordeals. We have to justifiably win her confidence, and that's going to be difficult."

"So what are you going to do…you're really going to tell her all about your war?"

I can't answer him.

"You will, won't you?" he says.

"I have to get this story," I finally say. "I'll do what I have to do. Right now, I'm carrying a dead deer on my back. And so will you."

"What, carry dead deer?"

"No, you blithering idiot, you'll do what you have to do to get this story." I roll my eyes.

Katniss emerges from the store, trailing a blond-haired boy in baker's white. This has to be Peeta. There is no outward display of affection.

Peeta says, "Hi, Katniss."

"Hi, yourself." She almost sounds warm.

He glances at us. "Who are these guys?"

Katniss says. "They're reporters from some paper in the Capitol. They want to interview me. The man with the deer is Charlie Allbright, and the man with the squirrels is Ace Archer. A reporter and a photographer."

Peeta wipes his hands on his shirt and bounces down the stairs to us. He moves sprightly for a man with a prosthetic leg, I notice. "Peeta Mellark. Nice to meet you. You're here to interview Katniss?"

"Well, we also want to hear your story," I say. "But for now, we're just talking."

"That's great," Peeta enthuses. "I'd be happy to talk to you…" He sees Katniss glaring at him, and turns to her. "What?"

"We haven't decided if I'm giving them the interview yet," Katniss says.

Peeta nods slowly. "Okay," he says.

"We're just talking right now," I say. "Katniss is asking the questions, and I'm doing my best to answer them."

"Good," Peeta says. "Because I have a bunch for you, since you're from the Capitol."

"Before you start asking…can I ask what we're doing with this deer around my neck? It's getting heavy."

"Oh, right," Katniss says. "Peeta, I shot four squirrels and this deer today. But we can't have them for dinner tonight, because of the town meeting. We have to be there."

"Town meeting…" Peeta says, his voice drifting.

"7:30 p.m.," Katniss says.

"Okay…I remember now. Right. Town meeting. So we're having, what… meatball sandwiches tonight, venison tomorrow?"

"That's right. Save me some bread for tonight."

Peeta points at us. "What are you going to do with these guys?"

"They're carrying my food to the icebox," Katniss says.

"Gentlemen," Peeta says, and disappears back into the store.

We start walking down the road. "He wants to talk," I say.

Dead silence from Katniss.

"But he's not going to talk until our situation is…resolved," I say.

"That's right," Katniss says.

"So what else can I tell you?" I ask.

"Who are you? And don't just say 'reporters.'"

She wants to know what's behind my press pass. "I'm 30 years old, I'm a war veteran, I've been covering the trials of the old government ministers, and I'm originally from District 2. Archer is from District 1. He missed the war."

"Career Tributes," Katniss says, sounding bitter.

I laugh. "Worse than you think. My father was a Peacekeeper."

Katniss stops again. "I thought Peacekeepers couldn't have families."

"The custom was honored in the breach," I say. "Another Shakespeare quote."

"We had Peacekeepers here who broke a lot of rules, too," Katniss says. "To benefit themselves." For a moment, I want to ask her if she knew my father, but I hold my tongue.

"So what are you doing being a reporter instead of a Tribute or a Peacekeeper?" Katniss asks.

"I had no stomach for the former and my father wouldn't let me be the latter. I got into writing. Liked Shakespeare. And my father urged me to join the rebellion."

"Your father, the Peacekeeper, urged you to join the rebellion?" Katniss gasps. "That's different."

"I'm kind of a different guy," I say. "But I'm not an ogre."

"I see that. You're still carrying the deer."

The weight is starting to kill me, though, but I'm not going to complain about it. Lugging a deer through the blitzed streets of District 12 is a small price to pay for quality time with the Mockingjay, I think.

"Have you thought about what you're going to make with this deer?" I ask.

"I figured I'll just clean it, gut it, and make a stew," Katniss says.

"How about venison fajitas?" I ask impulsively.

"What?" Katniss says.

"Venison fajitas. I can make them myself."

"You cook, too?"

"I've had to do the cooking in my family for years," I say. "I learned a few things along the way. I learned about venison fajitas from our food editor a couple of months ago. They're pretty good. You cut the venison into two-inch strips and put them in tortillas. If you like, I can make them for you and Peeta tomorrow night."

Katniss doesn't answer. She seems to be pondering the situation. She's only 19 years old, I think. But she operates like someone years older. But then, she's aged in a very short time. But hasn't everyone who has been through the war?

"So you're inviting yourself to my home for dinner tomorrow night," she says.

"Well…yes. But I'm also offering to make the dinner. Just…dinner. Nothing on the record. No pictures. All I need are some tortillas to wrap them in. Does Peeta have tortillas in his bakery?"

"I think so…yes."

"Then with some pepper, salt, oregano, and vegetable oil, we're in business," I say cheerily. "They're really good."

I see Archer shaking his head in amazement, while Katniss rolls her eyes in disbelief. I'm sure she didn't expect a reporter to come all the way out from the Capitol to cook her dinner.

The road leads past the edge of the ruins. I point at them. "I see they haven't cleaned them up."

No comment. Again.

"What else can I tell you?" I ask.

"A lot," Katniss says. "What do people think about me, if they think about me at all?"

"They all admire you, but they don't know you," I say. "That's the big reason I'm out here."

"What are they doing for the Avoxes?" Katniss asks.

"The medical experts are trying to figure out ways to repair their tongues. It'll be a long process."

"Are people still starving in the Districts?"

"No, but there are still shortages of various products, even in the Capitol."

"Nobody has vomiting parties any more," Archer chips in.

"What do they do for entertainment?" Katniss asks. "Since they can't waste food any more."

"They're bringing back organized sports," Archer says.

"They're also bringing back theater, music, and opera," I say.

"What are things like in the Capitol now? Are they still shallow, ignorant, and uncaring?"

"No, I think the war took them out of their comfort zone," I say. "And the world has really turned upside down. Most of the people running Panem are from the districts now. So many people were killed, there are a lot of empty neighborhoods and blank streets. The city is very austere. There's a lot of war damage, and it still hasn't been repaired. Still a lot of unexploded bombs. And now there's the terrorism…"

Katniss spins on me. "The terrorism?"

"You better explain this one, Charlie," Archer says. "You stepped into it."

"You haven't heard?"

"What terrorism?" Katniss barks.

Oh, hell, I think. She doesn't know. Damn. Well, better be honest.

I say, quietly, "Just before I came here, a group of terrorists raided a police station and stole weapons. Then they attacked a police car in District 1, and issued a manifesto calling for a restoration of the Hunger Games. The army and the police are looking for them. They call themselves 'The Defenders of the Hunger Games.'"

Katniss stops and looks terrified. "Are they coming here?"

"We don't know. We don't know what they're doing," I say. "There's some thought that Caesar Flickerman is behind them."

Katniss drops down, hands on her knees. "Caesar Flickerman. My old pal. The first man to interview the Mockingjay. Where is he?"

"Nobody knows, either," I say. "He may be connected with them, he may not…he's not a great political leader, just a motormouth…"

Katniss doesn't look at me. She stares into the distance. I recognize that "thousand-yard stare" in the faces of my pals from the war. Someone who has seen too much combat. "I'll never be safe," she says. "They'll come here for me."

"They have to get here first," I say. "And the whole army's after them."

Katniss shakes her head and rises. She is still staring off into the distance, toward the ruined buildings. "They'll come for me," she says, cold and hard. "I'm the Mockingjay. I wrecked their games. Destroyed their nation." Her mouth puckers. "They'll come for me," she says firmly. "I'll never be safe."

Nice job, I think. Now she's scared shitless. She'll retreat into her turtle shell.

"I'm sorry," I say. "But I think you should know."

"Was this part of why you were assigned to do this story about me?" Katniss flares.

"No…that was in the works before these incidents. They are not connected. I promise."

She starts walking again, and I keep going next to her. The deer is really weighing down on me now. Archer, wisely, is keeping silent. Katniss's face looks furious.

Think fast, Allbright. But think right.

"Katniss, I'm a combat veteran," I say. "I actually do know how you feel. I felt the same way myself during the war."

"But nobody's actually gunning for you," she snarls.

"No. But when I was in the war, I felt like the Peacekeepers were shooting right at me, personally. And some days they were." I pause. "Look, I'm not going to put a gloss on it and suggest that you should feel safe and sound out here, but I can tell you that a lot of people are working very hard to catch these bastards. And one thing I did learn in the war is not to let fear defeat you. I was afraid in every battle I fought…but I fought on anyway. I can't tell you not to be afraid…but I can tell you that you should never surrender to fear."

Katniss stares at me. So does Archer. I'm telling her more about the war in two minutes than I have to anyone outside of the Black Devils in seven months. I have a gut feeling I'm going to be talking a lot more about it in the next few days.

"Let me tell you something else," I say. "My boss, Colonel Gus Lewis, told us once, about something an English chaplain said, in a war hundreds of years ago. Before the men were going into a major battle. He said, 'Fear knocked at the door. Faith opened it, and there was nothing there.' You have to have faith…in something."

"What do you have faith in?" Katniss asks.

"I want to hear this," Archer says.

I exhale. That's a good question. Faith that I'll find Meredith again? No. But I do have the answer. "I had faith in the men and women in my unit," I say at length. "I believed in the folks I fought with. That they would protect me, and I would protect them. They might get killed and wounded, and I might get killed or wounded, but we'd never let each other down."

Katniss nods. We walk on. She is clearly absorbing that. There is a long silence as we keep walking. Appearing in the distance is a clutch of white houses, centered around a green. I recognize the construction of a Victor's Village. We must be nearly at Katniss's home, I think.

Finally, Katniss says. "I guess your Sponsors took care of you."

"She means that you had a lot of support," Archer says.

"I figured that out all by myself, Ace," I say. "Ace is a walking encyclopedia of the Hunger Games," I say to Katniss.

"Maybe he can fill me in on what I missed," she says, her voice bitter again.

"I'm sure you know the last two games better than anybody living," I say.

"When I was in the Arena for the last Games," Katniss says, as if she didn't hear us, "several of the other Tributes were taking care of me, but they didn't tell me. Johanna, Finnick, Beetee, Wiress, Mags, they were all involved in a plot to bail me out of the Arena. They didn't tell me about it before I went in, so I was trying to save Peeta at the expense of my life. Meanwhile, they all had my back, and I didn't know it…"

I listen closely, but don't take notes. She's opening up a little. I will have to open up as well. I have a hunch she'll find my war story very shallow, compared to hers.

"I'm sure there are people here in this District who have your back," I say. "And I think the whole country has your back now." I face Katniss. "And I have your back. Nobody's going to hurt you on my watch."

She looks into my eyes, and shakes her head, and resumes walking. "Glad to know so many people care about a crazy person," she mutters.

We walk into the square of neat houses. From the yard of one I hear geese cackling. They sound like they're laughing at me.

She turns left and walks down a path past a well-tended but temporarily fallow garden. "What do you grow here?" I ask.

"Primroses. And dandelions," she snaps.

"The significance of the primroses I can guess," I say. "The dandelions?"

"Later," Katniss says. She opens the door, and takes the bag of squirrels from Archer. "There's a deep freeze in the backyard, where you can put the deer," she adds.

I beckon to Archer to come with me and we step carefully over the garden, around the side of the house. It is a neat, unpretentious, two-story affair.

"You mean that crap, about watching her back," Archer hisses. "How the fuck are you going to do that?"

"The chances of those shithead 'Defenders of the Hunger Games' coming here are pretty remote," I say.

"How can you be sure of that?" Archer says.

"District 1 is hundreds of miles from here. The only connection between the districts is by train. The cops are going over every train with tweezers. Anyone who looks at them cross-eyed will probably spend a night in jail. So they only other way they can get here is on foot, and that will take forever. It's late fall. It'll soon be winter. They'll probably starve to death or freeze before they get here."

"And what tells you that?"

"I'm a light infantryman," I say. "I know about combat, life in the field, and troop movements."

Archer bounces in front of me. "And I know about kids my own age, which these guys probably are," he says. "First off, they trained all their lives for the Hunger Games, and that includes such little things as outdoor survival and concealment. They probably know more about snaking across country than all of your goddamn Black Devils. Second, they are true believers in this shit. They will do whatever they think they have to do to make their point. And third, they're my age. That means they want to make the biggest and loudest fart possible, because that's what people my age do."

I stop dead in my tracks. "So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that they're coming here. They will do whatever the fuck it takes, but they will come straight here." He points at me. "You think I'm stupid, because I'm young and obnoxious? But you watch. This is where they're going to come. Right for her. And now you put our asses on the line to protect her. Real fucking smart."

"We have to protect our sources," I say.

"Yeah, I had that lecture from Altman when I joined the paper, too! Only he meant from courts and retaliatory harassment!"

"What do you think this is?"

"Harassment means a bastard landlord who shuts off the water to kick unwanted tenants out of his apartment building in the Capitol! Not terrorists armed with automatic weapons!"

"Do you have any better ideas? This isn't some tenant who's blowing the lid off a lousy landlord! This is the fucking Mockingjay! The whole rebellion in one package!"

We resume walking into the backyard, which is full of more rows of plants. Katniss is waiting for us, having gone straight through the house. I notice that she has not let us into the house. Her mental walls are still up. Standing at her feet is the world's ugliest cat, with a mashed-in nose, torn-up ear, and yellow fur, hissing and mewing at us.

That is one ugly and mean cat, I think.

"Get back in, Buttercup," Katniss says to the cat, and it waddles back into the house.

Even the cats dislike me, I think.

There is a large refrigerator in a corner of the yard, which is enclosed by a high wooden fence. "You can put the deer in there," she says.

"Nice fridge," I say.

"The government gives us a lot of stuff," she says. "But I paid for that." She looks at the fridge. "When I lived in the Seam, we couldn't even dream of these kinds of luxuries." Katniss strides towards me, eyes hot and damp. "But you know what? When I went out this morning to hunt those deer and squirrels, I broke the law again."

I'm baffled. "Excuse me?"

"Under the terms of my release from killing President Coin," Katniss says, "I'm barred from leaving District 12. The district is still defined by the barbed-wire fence that encloses it. But I still go hunting. So every time I go out to hunt, I'm violating my parole. The only reason I don't get arrested is that Commissioner Davis has personally assured me that he will never order his police or allow any national police to interfere with my hunting. But when I hunt, I'm still breaking the law, just like in the old days."

I open the deep freeze's door and put away the deer. My shoulders ache from the weight. "I see," I say.

"So I don't see that much of a difference between the old regime and the new one. And now the new regime can't even guarantee my safety."

Archer and I are quiet.

"So I'm right back where I started. In a prison state again, being played as a piece in someone else's games," Katniss says. Her face is turning red with anger.

I scrape at the ground. "I see your point." I let out a sigh. "I was not aware about the conditions of your release."

I don't want to bargain with her, but Katniss does it for me.

"So here's a condition for dinner. I want my restrictions lifted."

"We can work on that," I say. "I'll have to talk to my editors. Are there other conditions?"

"Let me think about them," Katniss says. "I don't know yet. I'll think of some more, I'm sure. I want to talk this over with Peeta, too."

I walk up to her, right hand extended. "Deal," I say.

She steps back. "Not yet," she says. "You still have to tell me about your war first."

I'm puzzled. "Why is that?"

"I need to know who I'm dealing with. I've had enough people manipulate me for their ends, who were dishonest or partially honest, or just plain lying. Even Haymitch lied to me, and he was my Mentor. Most of the people who were honest with me are dead." She laughs bitterly. "And that includes President Snow."

President Snow never lied to Katniss Everdeen? When the hell did President Snow even talk to Katniss Everdeen, I wonder.

I let out a deep breath. "Okay. We'll talk about my war. I'll tell you what happened. Over dinner. Tomorrow. Do we have a deal?"

She looks down at my hand. "We have an agreement to keep talking," she says. "You can come over tomorrow night and cook us dinner, like you offered. We'll talk some more, then."

It's not the agreement I want, but it sounds like the framework for the agreement I want. At least we're still talking, and she hasn't booted me out on my ass. Or put an arrow through my eye.

"Okay. Dinner it is. I'll be here at 4:30 to make the fajitas." I reach forward and she shakes my hand.

"Deal," Katniss says. "I have oregano."

"Good." I smile.

"And thank you for carrying the deer," she adds. "It was good to get some help with that."

"No problem," I say. "Was there anything else you wanted to ask me, or that I could help you with?"

"No," Katniss says. She turns towards the path back to the front door. "But I think these folks from District 12 Police would like you to help them."

Walking down the path toward me are two typical police specimens, a grim-faced man and an equally grim-faced woman, in green uniforms, wearing seven-starred badges, both brandishing automatic weapons, wearing green caps.

"I didn't call them," Katniss says. "But I saw their car coming just before I came out here. I think Commissioner Davis wants a word with you."

Archer smacks me in the arm. "Nice going, pal," he says. "I hope you got bail money."

The two cops stand in front of us. "Charles Allbright and Ace Archer?" the female cop says.

"That's us," I say. "Are we under arrest?"

"I am Police Chief Angelica Barnes. Commissioner Davis sends his compliments and asks you to come with us," the female cop says, imperiously. "We have your bags."

"Are we under arrest," I repeat.

"No, but if you don't come with us, you will be," Chief Barnes says, her voice snarling.

I nod my head. "Okay, we'll come with you," I say.

"Way to go, boss," Archer says.

The cops lead us down the path, to their prowler. Our bags are jammed in its trunk.

I look back, and see Katniss calmly standing, watching us, her arms folded over her chest, staring at me again like I'm prey in her sights.

**To my readers:**

Well, it only took eight chapters, but here are Katniss and Peeta. I apologize to them for the lengthy delay in that happening.

This story began as a relatively simple idea…a journalist goes to District 12 and gets the Mockingjay's own story, and it has expanded like a metastasizing cancer. The characters I invented have taken over this story, and it is increasingly becoming about them. As I worked on this, I became increasingly interested in the dynamics of Panem rebuilding itself, and the characters I had created. Apparently, doing so violates the rules of fan fiction.

Some of my readers are increasingly annoyed about that, and I understand and respect their complaints.

I am a professional writer – my day job is writing press releases, statements, and briefing documents for the mayor of a major American City, and I am very aware that if my work isn't what the public wants, it doesn't matter what I think of it – it's what the audience thinks of it. If the work doesn't pass muster with the readers, you have failed. As Michelangelo supposedly tartly observed, "If the picture is lousy, throw it out."

This project is taking up a great deal of my time and energy – I don't want to waste that time and energy if it's just stuff that people dislike or hate. And at my age, I have enough experience of battering my head against walls in futile efforts to succeed.

In short, I apologize for the way this story is going and has gone, and probably will go. If the overwhelming views of this project are increasingly negative, I'll shut this down, mark it up as just another project that I've botched, and mosey on to something else.

I thank my readers for their input and interest in this work, and for their support. I apologize for it not meeting their expectations. I have tried to do the best I could with what little I have, and, as usual, it's simply not good enough. Fortunately, I'm used to it by now.


	9. Chapter 9

**INTERVIEW WITH THE MOCKINGJAY – Chapter 9**

The cops escort us to their car, and toss us unceremoniously in the back seat.

The Police Chief and her cohort hop into the front seats, and Barnes reaches for her radio transmitter. "Car 1 to Headquarters, chickens in pot. Returning to Headquarters. Out."

"Might I ask where we're going?" I say.

Barnes turns in her seat. "We're taking you to the District Headquarters," she says.

She turns around and faces forward again. The car rolls off.

I throw my head back, and yawn. "I need a shower," I say.

Archer looks me over. "Yeah, you do," he says. Then he stares out his window as Victor's Village rolls by. "You know," he says, "when I go on assignments with reporters, I cover accidents, crime scenes, trials, arraignments, feature stories, press conferences, and I've done some interesting stuff. I've seen guys with their heads cut off when an unexploded pod got detonated, I've seen war criminals' husbands threaten to kill themselves, I even met a 100-year-old woman once. But I've never been in the back of a police car on an assignment before. This is…what's the word? Unique!"

"I take it you're not happy with the way this story is coming," I retort.

"You could say that."

"I think you just did."

"I guess so. Well, what are we going to do now, boss? We're going to see the principal," Archer says.

"Let me handle this," I say.

"Oh, like you handled Katniss? That was real smooth. At first she didn't trust us. Now she probably thinks we're going to kill her."

"We are having dinner with her tomorrow night," I reply. "Which is a titanic step forward."

"Assuming we don't go directly to jail."

Barnes turns back to us. "You two shut the fuck up," she says, in a tone that brooks no challenge.

We shut up.

District Headquarters is another modular building, one of three connected structures. Opposite it, however, construction workers are busy on scaffolds, putting together another Victorian-style building.

The police officers open the doors and escort us into Headquarters. The police front desk is exactly what I expect: the usual large raised desk, and nearby, a lockup, with two bedraggled prisoners within.

The cops park our luggage in a pile on the floor. Chief Barnes points us at a bench. "Sit there. And shut up."

"I would like to phone my newspaper, and report the treatment we are being given," I say.

"You can take that up with the Commissioner in two minutes," Barnes says. "He'll be right here."

I slump down on the bench, arms folded. Archer strides over to one of his bags, pulls out his music player, and defiantly slaps the headphones in his ears. Heavy metal music blares from it. Interesting way to show defiance.

From outside, a loud voice roars, "Where are they? Where the fuck are they?"

Barnes yells out the door, "In here, Commissioner."

Into the building strides a bulky, muscled man, wearing coal miner's outfit, including helmet, dangling a safety lamp, covered in coal dust. The police officers straighten to attention as he enters, and he acknowledges them with curt nods of his head. Then he faces us.

"You two are the reporter and photographer from the Capitol?" he bellows.

"Yes, I am, and I am filing an official protest for this treatment. We are accredited members of the press, we have not committed any crime, and we were on private property with the owner's permission…"

"I don't give a rat's ass! I am Ron Davis, Commissioner of District 12, and you two individuals are not welcome here!"

I rise to my feet, and reach into the pocket of my jacket. "I have a letter here from the President of the republic that orders you to assist me…"

He points in my face. "I don't care what that says! District 12 has had 75 years of the Capitol starving us, torturing us, and bombing us! 8,000 of my friends and neighbors are all dead because of the fucking Capitol! And you came here and went straight to Katniss Everdeen's house without reporting in to my office…first!"

"What then?" I ask.

"It's a District ordinance that all journalists who visit District 12 must check in with District Headquarters when they arrive here," Barnes says, with a smirk.

"Your train arrived 10 minutes early," Davis says. "You should have waited on the platform until Chief Barnes and her officers arrived. Instead you were observed walking through the District without media escort, and talking with Katniss Everdeen without permission!"

"Which also violates a District Ordinance," Barnes says, smirking again. "It is illegal for non-District persons to meet with Katniss Everdeen without being screened by District Headquarters."

"Those laws are nuts," Archer says.

"And an affront to free press and free assembly," I say.

"Wrong answer, numbskulls," Davis says, leaning towards us. "In this District, I am the law!"

We absorb that for a moment.

"We are committed to protecting Katniss Everdeen from further harassment. She is the most important person in District 12, and we are shielding that young lady from reporters, salesmen, con men, and crooks! She isn't just one of our own, she is District 12, and we will protect her from the likes of you!" Davis shouts.

"So are you arresting us?" I reply. "Because if that's the case, I'm calling my newspaper, and there'll be a dozen lawyers and reporters down here on the next train."

Davis squints at me. "You're not under arrest. For now. But your presence here is going to be discussed at a Town Meeting tonight. And if my neighbors agree that you should leave town, you will be expelled from District 12, for violating these ordinances. On the next train, tomorrow morning! You follow?"

"Well, that may be a little difficult," I say. "As I'm cooking dinner for Katniss Everdeen at her home tomorrow night."

Davis's eyes bulge. I can see the whites of them over his coal-covered, olive skin. "I don't believe that," he snarls.

"Call her right now if you don't believe me," I say, pointing at the police desk and its telephone. "Go ahead. We shook hands on it."

Davis glances at his chief of police. "Watch them," he says, and stomps over to the phone. He punches four buttons. "Hello, Katniss," he says, in a surprisingly cheery voice. "Yes, it's Commissioner Davis. I want to apologize to you for us letting those two reporters bother you. Well, we got there a few minutes late, and they didn't wait for my police chief. No, it won't happen again."

He turns away from me. The cops have their eyes fixed on Archer and myself.

"Yes, we took those two reporters away," Davis continues into the phone. "They're here at the station. We can get rid of them. Well, why not? One of them said that you and him are having dinner tomorrow night…" Davis spins on us, his face a black mask of rage. "Really? You did? You are?" His voice rises in octave. I hear babbling at the other end of the phone. "I see," Davis says, his voice dropping, going quiet. "No, that's not a problem. Well, we have to put this up to the Town Meeting tonight. Yes, they did. They broke two ordinances, in fact. No, of course not. Yes, we'll leave it up to the Town Meeting. No, Katniss, we aren't going to do that. No, ma'am. Of course, ma'am. Yes, we stand behind you a hundred percent. Naturally, we will keep an eye on these two guys. I'll see you at the Town Meeting tonight. The same to you. Good-bye."

Davis holds the phone in the air for a moment and then places it back down on his cradle. He stares down at it in silence for a long time, his lips pursing.

Finally he swivels his head at me. "Miss Everdeen confirms your story about having dinner with her tomorrow night."

Thank you, Katniss, I think. All she had to do was deny that dinner, and we might be headed for jail…or worse.

Davis regards us. "All right. I still don't want you around. I don't like the way you operate. This matter still has to go to the Town Meeting. If the residents vote to boot you out of the District, you're on the next train back to the Capitol." His voice and tone are clipped and harsh. "It's their call. Not mine. I'm their servant."

I breathe deeply. I'd like to say, I thought you were the law in District 12. Maybe I better start backpedaling. "Commissioner, I want to assure you that we had no intention of breaking any ordinances. I had no idea that talking to Katniss was illegal, and we didn't see a reception committee at the station. I did not mean to offend you or disrespect District 12 and its residents."

I offer him my hand. Davis looks at Barnes, who looks back at him in puzzlement. Davis looks back at me. His anger seems to be dissipating slightly. But he doesn't take my hand.

"In my office," he says. He strides away from me, down the hall. "Watch their bags," he yells over his shoulder. His natural tone of voice seems to be yelling.

We follow Davis down the hall, past the lock-ups, through a doorway, and into the adjoining modular building. The linoleum is replaced by carpeting, the jail cells by cubicles and offices. We have obviously transitioned from the harsh world of police to the softer world of political administration. Davis boots open a door at the end of the hall, and we follow him in.

The office is decorated sparsely – a giant map of District 12 on one wall, old photographs of the District on another, and a sign that reads, "Lead, follow, or get the hell out of the way," on a third.

Davis slumps down at a clean desk and places his safety lamp and helmet on a blotter, revealing gray hair covered with coal dust. He ruffles the hair and stares at us for a long time. I can see his veins throbbing.

"I ought to kick your asses," he says. "I am fucking tired of assholes coming here from the Capitol trying to fuck with Katniss Everdeen and the people of this District, and as far as I'm concerned, you two are just the latest in a long line of boils on the butts of progress! You follow?"

"Can we sit?" I ask.

He points at two chairs opposite his desk. We sit. Archer sensibly keeps his camera tucked away.

"We're not on your newspaper's record," Davis says. "But you're on mine. My administration of this District is committed to protecting Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark from any and all invasions of their privacy. You follow?"

"And you have codified that into law, I see," I say, trying to sound conciliatory.

"Cornerstone of my administration," Davis barks. "In the last two months, I've had to put seven journalists, eight salesmen, two confidence men, and assorted tourists and thrill-seekers in jail or back on that train, for trying to harass Katniss Everdeen." He speaks with a thick drawl. "The last two journalists who came here tried to break into her house while she was out hunting. If I could, I would have had them horsewhipped."

"What did you do," I ask, quietly.

"Put the bastards in jail, charged with breaking and entering and a dozen other crimes." He pauses. "Katniss Everdeen is a hero and a legend to this District. She has earned the right to live her life in peace and quiet. And this District will stand up like a wall to protect her. Especially against the press, and especially with terrorists on the loose!"

Obviously the "Defenders of the Hunger Games" have not been brought to ground, I think. "Those terrorists are still out there?" I ask.

"Chief Barnes told me there have been no arrests made," Davis says. His voice sounds like granite being chipped. "But there was an incident at an old Hunger Games arena someplace. You'll have to ask her about that."

Archer and I look at each other. "Do you know what it was?" he asks.

"I don't have time for fool details of other Districts and old Hunger Games arenas," Davis yells. "I have District 12 to run! I have a damn good Police Chief, and a… decent Business Administrator…and they take care of their jobs! You can ask them! I have enough shit to deal with! I have the Capitol, the coal, 3,000 construction workers behind schedule, and no resources! Now I have to deal with you shitheads, too! And I am going to protect my people!"

Time for a little diplomacy. "Part of my assignment here is to tell the story about District 12," I say. "That includes telling your story. To give a balanced and accurate picture of how things are going here. It's not just about Katniss Everdeen."

Davis gives me a stony look, and rubs his nose. "All right, Mister Newsman, I'll give you the broad strokes on what's going on here in District 12, so you don't go home on that train tomorrow empty-handed. This is District 12! I am the voice and spokesman for 900 residents, who lost their homes, their possessions, their livelihoods, and their families to the Capitol, after 75 years of being tortured, starved, and enslaved by the Capitol!"

He whips a photograph off his desk and shows it to us. A tattered and skinny family group. "That's my wife, and my three kids. They're all dead. Killed when the Capitol bombed the District to hell after the 75th Hunger Games. I'm alive because I was unloading coal that day. My home was in the Seam. Now it's rubble. Because of you Capitol bastards. You follow?"

He slaps the photo back down on his desk and to face him. He stares at the picture.

"I'd like to point out that the bombing was undertaken by the previous government," I say. "And that government has been overthrown. And neither I nor my photographer had anything to do with the bombing of this District."

Davis doesn't look up. "No, but you Capitol assholes have re-opened the mines. The first thing you people said when you came here was, 'The mines will be closed. We won't use coal any more. We're going to build factories here to make medicines.'" Davis turns on us, and looks into my eyes. "Then a week later, some moron from the Capitol came down here and said, in a squeaky voice,, 'Golly, gee, boys, I'm real sorry, but we have to re-open the coal mines. And you know what, you all have to work more shifts.'"

I pull out my notebook. "Are we on the record?"

"Yeah, we're on the record. But you watch your tongue, boy."

"Sir, I'm not here to wreck your life. I swear. Why are the coal mines open again?"

"Apparently some of the other Districts still need our coal." Davis's voice takes on a sneering tone. "They haven't finished converting to solar and wind power yet, and we're the source of coal. And will be, until the conversion is complete. Then we can start producing medicine, and get the hell out of the coal business."

"I see."

"I have a population of 800 District 12 residents. About a third of them are coal miners. So every coal miner does a shift, or two. That includes me. I just came off shift to deal with you two."

"So how long do you anticipate these extra shifts?"

"Until we either get more coal miners trained or the other Districts ramp up their power sources," Davis says. "Or both." He pauses.

"How are you getting more coal miners?"

"We're advertising in the other district for immigrants and guest workers. The problem is, we can't take in any immigrants or guest workers, because we have nowhere to put them, until the fucking construction workers finish their goddamn projects and leave!

"You people from the Capitol think we're a bunch of inbred yokels and you treat us that way, war or no war."

"Actually, I don't know anything about District 12," I say. "I'm here to learn about it. I have no preconceived notions. What about the construction workers?"

"If they're not working, they're drinking. And when they drink, they get loud, and obnoxious, and wind up in my lockup. Every fucking night. So everything is screwed up here…that's your goddamned story, and it's all because of the Capitol."

I want to try and bring something positive to the table. "You said the coal miners are working double shifts…"

"Everybody's getting paid double time," Davis says, his voice grudging. "Nobody starves in District 12 any more. That's one thing the Capitol has done for us. We're first priority for food now. There is no more hunger in District 12."

"Speaking of food, I see that you rebuilt the Mellark bakery…"

"There is nothing we won't do for Peeta and Katniss," Davis says, gravely. "Which is the only reason you two are not in my lock-up. I still can't believe you two just walked up to Katniss Everdeen and started asking her questions."

"Sir, that's what I'm paid to do," I say. "It's not a personal attack on you or your District. And I'm sorry about the problems you're having."

Davis slams his fist down on his desk. "I have eight million problems in running this District, and now I have to deal with you two. Interview concluded. The Town Meeting is tonight. If they decide to throw you out, you're on the first train in the morning back to the Capitol. If not, I'll be goddamn surprised. You follow?"

"You do realize that we will have to report your conduct to our newspaper, and we may publish it," I say.

Davis smiles, revealing battered teeth. "I really don't care," he says.

"And why not?"

"Because I'm running for mayor, unopposed. And when my people hear that I went off on a couple of Capitol reporters, hell, I may get 200 percent of the vote!" He rises from his seat. "And when they get that Panem Senate organized, I'm running for District 12's Senate seat, too, and the Capitol will hear from me and every citizen of District 12! And you can quote me on that! You follow?"

"I see," I say. "I wanted to ask you more about what's going on in District 12, but…"

"This interview is over," Davis repeats.

"I do have to ask a housekeeping question," I say. "Even if we're leaving in the morning, we need somewhere to stay tonight. And get some dinner. And I'd like to call my paper about the action you're taking against us. My understanding was that the District would put us up, and bill my paper."

"That's correct," Davis says. "You can go see my Business Administrator about it. She'll take care of you." He chuckles. "Hell, she'll probably fuck you. She'll fuck anybody. Fuckin' slut."

Archer and I share a quizzical look. I've never heard a senior government official trash a subordinate before.

"I beg your pardon?" I ask Davis.

"She does her job," Davis barks, sounding grudging. "But she's not from District 12. When I'm mayor, we'll get rid of all these fucking imports from the Capitol. District 12 will be run by District 12 people, for District 12 people."

"I see," I say. Xenophobia at its very best, I think. Or its worst. But then, I can't blame them.

Davis rises and points out the door. "Down the hall, three doors down on the right. She'll take care of you. Tomorrow you're gone."

We prepare to leave. Davis looks down at his desk. "And by the way, don't think you can argue your cause at the Town Meeting tonight. It's District 12 residents only."

"I can't even plead my case to your residents?"

Davis smiles toothily at us. "No. Have a pleasant evening."

We walk down the hall. "Boy, you're really impressing these folks," Archer says. "We haven't found a friendly face since we got here. What do you think Altman's going to do when we come back on the train tomorrow without the story?"

"We're having dinner with the Mockingjay tomorrow night, and I'm cooking it, and that is engraved in stone," I say. "I don't care what this guy says. We are going to the Town Meeting tonight, and we are going to argue our case. And if that doesn't work, I'm calling Altman and getting our legal guys down here. The last I looked, District 12 is still part of Panem, and President Paylor signed an Open Public Meetings Act into law three months ago."

"Go get 'em, tiger," Archer says.

We stride down the hall. "Third door, right?" I ask, staring at him.

"Yeah, that's what the man said."

I enter the office, still looking at Archer. "Well, one thing I do know, the Business Administrators usually really run their Districts, and they know more law than the Mayors do, and they'll sort it out."

"You bet I will," says a familiar female voice.

I turn my head and look into the office. The Business Administrator of District 12 rises from her desk, wearing a white blouse and blue jeans, and comes toward me, eyes shining, face breaking into a smile…a smile that I remember so well, having leaned into it many times, and not seen in more than a year.

It's Meredith.

I freeze in the doorway.

"Hello, fair man," she says, trying to sound casual, and failing. "I missed you."

"I missed you too, dark lady," I gasp, and fly into her open arms. I burst into tears. She's crying, too.

**Note to Readers:**

I got an outpouring of support from my readers after my last chapter, and I am very grateful.

I want to thank my readers who have written reviews or supportive notes: Skreeboop (who acted as an excellent beta reader), MiaGleek, nikki50894, anon, tayler, brokenflower, wendyreader, The Hare and the Otter, I love this chapter, theguardpie, Artemis90, Paper-Dreamer, queenisabella123, and Nathascha, for their comments and input.

I did create a forum on this site for people to discuss this opus, by the way. It should be under "Books, Hunger Games."

It's located at:

forum/Interview_With_the_Mockingjay_discussion_group/112302/

I have not created any topics…it's for my readers to discuss my work.

The avatar is a photograph of Mariano Rivera in his 1912 New York Highlanders throwback uniform coming on to pitch in Fenway Park on their Opening Day this year, which commemorated the 100th anniversary of that ballpark's premiere. The Yankees spoiled the Red Sox' party, winning, 6-2.

If anyone wants to beta read this project, they can contact me via private message.

In the meantime, this story is continuing, inch by inch, yard by yard. I know that some of my fans are not happy with the fact that this concentrates on my characters rather than on Suzanne Collins' characters.

As my police and fire colleagues said when we were dealing with Hurricane Irene last year around this time, my response to my readers will be "event-driven." If my fans turn on me, the story goes away. I'm not writing this to enrage people. I will yield to my critics.

I hope that readers do enjoy my take on the post-war world of Panem. Thanks for your continued support.


	10. Chapter 10

**INTERVIEW WITH THE MOCKINGJAY – Chapter 10**

For the longest time, Meredith and I embrace, our lips locked, tears flowing. She plops her head on my left shoulder and breathes, "I missed you so much"

"I never stopped looking for you," I said. "I thought you were dead, but I kept looking."

"I'm still here," Meredith says, "And I still love you."

I hear a clicking noise, and we both look up to see Archer snapping photographs of us. I'm stunned.

"Hey, 20 years from now, you're going to thank me for this," he says, looking at a picture on his camera. He nods critically. "You two look good together," he adds.

Meredith bursts into laughter. "A lot of people have said that to us," she finally says.

She uncurls from me and pulls me toward her desk and its piles of paper. "Look at this," she says, pointing to a framed photograph on it. It's a shot Kae Lyn took of Meredith and me together, at the graduation ceremony back in District 7. We have our arms around each other and are smiling for the camera. "I keep it right here. Do you still have yours?"  
"It's at my bedside," I say, clutching her fingers to mine. "I'll wait for you," I sing.

"If I should fall behind, wait for me," Meredith answers, and we lock lips again. Finally, we pull apart, still holding hands.

"I don't know where to begin," I say. "What happened? Why are you here? Where have you been?"

Meredith places her index finger on my lips. "I have the same questions of you," she says. "But you have come to visit me, so you're going to have to talk first."

I sit down in the sofa opposite Meredith's desk and she sits next to me, still clutching my hand tightly. Neither of us want to let go. The small office is lined with bookshelves on one wall, a marker board on the opposite wall. Archer picks up a stack of paper reports from a chair and slouches down in that.

"You're obviously not here strictly to see me," Meredith says, smiling mischievously.

"Well, I am, but not originally," I answer. I stroke her hair. "You haven't changed," I say.

She pulls up her left pants leg. "Not completely," she says. There is a slight scar on her leg. "Second-degree burn when my Buffalo brewed-up," she says. "It doesn't hurt any more. I can still run."

I stroke the wound tenderly. "I'm sorry," I say. I came out of the war physically unscathed. Her leg still looks as sensual as ever, despite the scar.

Meredith tugs down the pants, and suddenly her manner changes to the more clipped style she had in our classes and on the battlefield. "So why are you here?"

I sigh. Back to work. "I'm here on business," I say. "I'm working for the **Panem Times**…are you familiar with that?"

"We don't get newspapers much out here," Meredith says. "We get our news off of TV."

"That explains why I haven't had a call from you at the paper," I say.

Meredith's lips purse. "I didn't know where to find you…or if I should." Her eyes are damp again.

"I said I would wait for you," I say. She squeezes my hand in reply, and nods.

"Guys, this is all wonderful," Archer blares from his chair, "And I really want to hear this story, but I am fucking tired, need a shower, we have to get in touch with the paper, we have a major, major, story to do, there are terrorists on the loose, and the Commissioner of this District wants to kick our asses out of here. Can we take care of a little business?"

I sigh. Meredith looks puzzled. "Who's your pal?"

"My photographer. Ace Archer," I say. "Ace, I guess you've figured out that this is Meredith Jackson by now."

"I kind of guessed," Archer says. "Great to finally meet you."

Meredith rises to shake Ace's hand, and asks, "What happened to Kae Lyn…was she…was she killed?"

"No, she's on another assignment," I say. "Chasing after the terrorists. They gave me Mr. Archer. He's from District 1. He needs some fine-tuning."

"I see," Meredith says, shaking his hand. "And you know about me and Charlie…how?"

"This morning, while we were on the train, Charlie told me how you guys first met."

"We were sharing a compartment in the train from the Capitol. I had a nightmare, and woke him up by shouting your name," I say, "So I had to tell him a little bit about us. I just told him how we met."

"I see," Meredith says. "And you told him…"

"It was all good," Archer says, hurriedly. "He pretty much said he fell in love with you the minute he met you."

Meredith smiles sweetly back at me. "All right," she says. "Well, at least he was accurate." She swirls back to behind her desk, trying to assume a business-like attitude. My lips are dry and my heart is pounding. What I really want to do is toss Archer out of the room and resume kissing Meredith, but I have to focus. I think back to the war, and see Tracker Jackers buzzing towards my position. I reach for the insecticide dispenser, and…

…I'm back in the moment.

"Are you okay?" Meredith asks.

I put up my right hand. "Archer and I have been assigned to get an interview with Katniss Everdeen. It's a major, major, story for us. We're to stay here as long as it takes to get it. We're also supposed to file stories about what's going on in District 12," I say.

"The cops didn't put you back on the train when you got here?" Meredith asks.

"We have a little support for our project," I say. I whip out the letter from President Paylor and pass it to Meredith.

She reads it and lets out a whistle. "No wonder the cops didn't throw you back on the train. Well, you shouldn't have any problems with this."

"Tell her the fun part, boss," Archer says.

"When we got off the train, the cops weren't there. So we went for a walk into the town."

Meredith shakes her head and hands back the letter. "First mistake. You should have waited for the police to arrive. Any journalists come here, they have to register with us."

"It gets worse," Archer says.

"Ace, I'm the writer, can I tell this story?" I interject.

Meredith grins. "You two are certainly a well-oiled team," she says. "How did it get worse?"

"We met up with Katniss Everdeen in town."

Meredith throws back her chair and laughs. "Have you pulled the arrow out of your back yet?"

I blush a little. "Actually, she had me carry her deer. I hauled it to her house."

"All right," Meredith says. "Very good. She's been known to attack unwanted visitors."

"And she agreed that I'm going to cook dinner for her tomorrow night."

"I'm even more impressed," Meredith says. "You won her over."

"Then the Chief of Police picked us up at her house and brought us down here," I continue.

"Of course she did. You broke another ordinance when you started talking to Katniss," Meredith says. "So can I assume that they hauled you down here and Commissioner Davis threatened you?"

"You sound like you know all this stuff already," I say.

"You're not the first reporters that came down here and tried to interview Katniss," Meredith says. The first team to come here was from the Capitol TV network, and they chased Katniss to her house and tried to break into it. So they passed an ordinance at a Town Meeting to protect her."

"What happened to the reporters," Archer asks.

"They were lucky to get back on the train with all their appendages intact," Meredith says. "They nearly got castrated."

Yeah, we are damn lucky, I think.

"Oh yeah, we're fucking lucky," Archer says. "Tell her how the day gets worse."

"When the cops brought us here, Commissioner Davis chewed our asses out," I say. "I told him we were invited to dinner, and he called her. She confirmed the dinner. Then he told us that because of we broke the ordinances, our case has to go to the Town Meeting tonight. And we're not allowed to attend, let alone speak."

Meredith glares. Not at me. "That idiot. He knows he can't bar you from a Town Meeting. The Open Public Meetings Act applies to all Districts." She drums her fingers on her desk.

I turn to Archer. "I told you he couldn't bar us."

Meredith whips the phone off her desk and punches in three numbers. "Commissioner? Yes, it's me. Hey, I'm talking with those two reporters…" She is cut off by an angry barrage of noise from the phone. Meredith cups her hand over the mouthpiece, and says, "He's upset."

"I've already had the live performance," I say.

She takes her hand off the mouthpiece and speaks. "Okay. He just told me you barred him from the Town Meeting, and…No, sir. You can't do that. No, sir. It doesn't matter how you feel about that. This is an Open Public Meetings Act issue. They cannot be barred, especially as they are accredited members of the press. Yes, President Paylor sent that down. You saw it. Three months ago. I see, sir. I'll be here." She hangs up.

"The Commissioner is coming down," Meredith says. "He's upset."

Archer shoves his hands into his eyes. "I can't wait to see how the day gets worse."

"So you're set for dinner with Katniss?" Meredith asks. "I wonder if I can crash that…"

The door crashes open, and Davis, his face slightly clearer of coal dust, bursts in. "What do you mean, I can't bar these assholes from the Town Meeting? Am I the fucking District Commissioner or aren't I?"

I rise to my feet, anticipating another battle.

Meredith rises from her seat to face her boss. "Sir, as I said, it's a Federal law. The Open Public Meetings Act applies to all legislative bodies throughout Panem. That includes District 12 Town Meetings. If we bar the reporters from the Town Meeting, we both could wind up in jail."

Davis squints down at us. "Fuck it," he says. "They can come. They'll get tossed out by majority vote, anyway. That I know is legal."

"Yes, sir, that is perfectly legal," Meredith nods her head. "The Panem courts have still not ruled on that ordinance." She shoots me a look that says that ordinance is likely to be overturned later. But that won't help me now.

"All right," Davis sighs.

Meredith walks over to me, and almost automatically, she puts her right hand in my left hand. "Sir, I am also required to report to you under the ethics laws that I have a relationship with Mr. Allbright."

Davis is baffled. He looks stunned. "He just walked into this office, and you have a relationship? What the hell is with you?" He barks at Meredith.

"He's my boyfriend," Meredith says firmly.

Davis laughs. "You just met the guy! What about all your other guys?"

"He's been my boyfriend for more than a year," Meredith says, squeezing my hand. "I told you many times I had a boyfriend."

"Who you haven't seen in a year," Davis says. "This guy is him? The guy you talked about? I thought that was bullshit!"

"She's right, sir. I'm him," I say, looking at him, then back at Meredith. "We met in Army training a year ago."

"Did you know he was coming?" Davis barks at Meredith.

Meredith shakes her head. "Not a clue. And I'll swear to that. But Charlie is my boyfriend, and if you want to recuse me from the Town Meeting on those grounds, I'll step aside."

"I thought you were…" He waves his hand dismissingly. "Ahh, fuckit, I don't care if you're doing another guy. All right, he can come to the meeting. So can you, I don't care how many guys you're sleeping with, as long as you run the meeting properly." Davis stomps out of the room, and turns to as he closes the door. He points at Meredith and me. "You know, you two look good together," he says.

Then he leaves and slams the door.

A furious Meredith disengages my hand, charges up to the door, and pounds on it, yelling, "You bastard! You miserable, fucking, bastard!" She bursts back into tears. Tears of anger and humiliation, not joy.

"Somebody please tell me what's going on here," Archer says.

I reach for Meredith and wrap her in my arms. She cries into my shoulder. "That man hates me. He's hated me since I got here. He thinks I'm sleeping with all the construction workers, and tells everyone that to discredit me. He's called me a whore. An efficient one."

I disentangle myself from Meredith, rush over to the door, and fling it open, seeing a ball of red fire. Nobody, no matter how big, is going to call my woman a whore.

As I fling open the door, Archer tackles me at the legs and knocks me down. "Let me go, Goddammit!" I yell.

He and Meredith drag me back into her office and she slams the door. Archer pins me down on the floor and rolls me over onto my back. "Jesus Christ! What are you thinking?"

"Did you hear what that son of a bitch said?" I shout. "He's calling my girlfriend a whore! I'm going to stomp the shit out of him!"

"No, you're not!" Meredith yells. "You do that, and you won't be on that train tomorrow, you and your photographer will both be in jail. And I'll be fired!"

"Listen to her, boss!" Archer shouts. "She's right. You'll feel great for 30 seconds, and then the cops will kick the shit out of you and cut off your balls! Do you want that?"

I look into Archer's face, and Meredith's. His face is hot. Hers is frightened. Sadly, they're right. "Okay," I say. "Now get off of me."

Archer rolls off and I climb back up onto the sofa. Meredith sits next to me and clutches my arm. "You were really going to go in there and beat him up," she says, admiringly.

"Yeah, I would have." She grabs two tissues from a box, gives one to me, and blows her nose. "You're still my hero."

I hold her tightly. "I won't let that bastard hurt you," I say, clutching her cheek against mine. "And I know you aren't sleeping around. I know that…I know you didn't."

"I'm going to ask again…what the hell is going on here," Archer pleads.

"I need to know myself," I say.

Meredith blows her nose again. "We need to talk, Charlie. You and me. A lot has happened."

"Tell me about it," I say.

"We have to take care of business first," she says, rising and returning to her desk. "Remember, they taught us that in training. Take care of your men and your mission first."

"I remember," I say.

Meredith collapses into her chair, and exhales. "Okay. We got you into the Town Meeting. That's at 7 p.m. tonight, in the big triple module building. We use that for Town Meetings and events. Now, assuming that we can convince the District 12 citizens to let you stay here, you are supposed to have dinner…"

"Cook dinner," I correct Meredith.

She smiles sweetly. "Cook dinner…for Katniss Everdeen tomorrow night. Well, as I said, you don't mind if I crash that party?"

"Excuse me," I gasp.

She dials four numbers on her phone. "Katniss? Hi, it's Meredith. Listen, I just met your two new friends. Yes, they're quite a pair. Well, do you remember me telling you about my boyfriend from the Army? Yes, only a hundred times. That's right, he's the reporter. Yes, I'm surprised, too. No, I didn't know he was coming." She spins the chair away from us, so that we can't hear the next piece of the conversation. After some chatter, she spins back. "So that's okay with you? Great. I'll tell him to make more food. No, I've never heard of venison fajitas, either. Yes, I'm sure they're good. Yes, he can cook a little. No, actually, they didn't arrest him. Right, that's going to the Town Meeting tonight. Of course I'll be there. You have a message for him? I'll pass it on."

Meredith cups the phone and says to me, "Katniss says she hopes that the odds be ever in your favor."

I wince at the cliché. Archer laughs hard.

Meredith back into the phone: "Well, he didn't like it, but his photographer did. Yes, I'll be there. See you soon." She hangs up.

"Well, I'm coming to the dinner," Meredith says. "First time you'll have ever cooked for me."

"You know I can do it," I say.

"Yes, you told me how you did it for your father…how is he, by the way?"

"He's okay…which reminds me, that's another thing we have to talk about."

"Can we hold off on that, too," Archer says. His patience is clearly gone.

"Ace is right," I say. "Look, we need a room for the night, get our stuff parked there, we need some chow, we need to contact our paper and tell them all the crazy shit that has happened today."

"No problem," Meredith says. She punches three numbers into her phone again. "Thom? It's Meredith. I need you to open up a two-bed room in the visitor's quarters. At least for one night. And arrange for transport for luggage." She cups the phone again. "Where's your stuff…on the Police Station floor?"

I nod. Meredith back into the phone: "On the Police Station floor. Their names are Charlie Allbright and Ace Archer. They're media. They need a phone with an outside line. And they need to be fed. Yes, get them mess numbers."

Meredith hangs up. "Thom is the in charge of the District's billeting facility, when he's not doing his shift in the mines," she says. "He's one of the survivors of the bombing of the District when the war started. He's a good guy. We have a little barracks for official visitors and a mess hall for police and officials. You don't mind dining with the cops, after they brought you down here?"

I shrug my shoulders. So much has gone on today, I need to refuel and regroup. I'm running short on energy. "If I don't get some chow soon, I'll have a splitting headache," I say, rubbing my forehead. "Ace, why don't you go out and get our bags loaded on whatever truck they're sending us?"

"Why me?" Archer asks.

"Ace, how about you go out and load our gear while Meredith and I have a private conversation," I say.

"Now I get it," he says, rising. "But you have to tell me the rest of this. This assignment has gone crazy." He walks to the door, then turns around. "You know, this is actually a hell of a lot more interesting than shooting a bunch of tourists at a Hunger Games arena."

"That's what you get when you hang out with the Black Devils," I say.

"I wasn't a Black Devil," Meredith says. "I was just in the armored infantry."

Archer points at us. "You know, you two getting back together…I guess the odds were in your favor, but you didn't know it." He goes.

Meredith comes out from behind her desk, shuts the door, sits down on the sofa, flings her arms around me, and kisses me passionately. Then we draw apart and stare into each other's faces, holding hands, in utter silence, for what seems the longest time. Outside I hear men singing.

"What's that?" I ask.

"Miners or construction workers changing shifts," Meredith says. "They sometimes sing when they come off shift. Most of them are veterans, too."

I recognize the song…it's an ancient song about missing the girl back home, and going back to her "when this cruel war is over."

"What happened," I finally ask Meredith. "The last time I saw you, you were driving off to resume the advance. They told me a day later your unit had been ambushed and nearly wiped out."

"My vehicle was hit, and that's how I got the scar. I was the only one who escaped. I got out just before it was burned out. After I got out, I passed out from the pain."

I smile slightly. "Please don't tell me you lost your memory or something melodramatic like that."

"No, nothing that heroic. I was awakened a while later, by an infantry unit, which was advancing, and they'd taken a lot of casualties, so the CO asked me to lead a platoon I stayed with them to the end of the war."

"Did you make it into the Capitol?" I ask.

"Not to the Presidential Palace, but into the City. After the surrender, I went back to District 11." She looks down at our entwined hands. "You know why I had to leave the District in the first place."

"Yes, I remember," I say. "But you never told me the whole story. Can you tell me now?"

"Not right now," Meredith says, her voice halting. "I wish we could have dinner together this evening and talk about it, but I have to prepare for the Town Meeting."

"After the meeting," I say.

"You might be on a train back to the Capitol," she says, her voice now cracking. She looks away from me. "I don't know what we're going to do now."

"We found each other again…I'm never going to lose you again. The war is over. Whatever is going on now, we can fix it…why are you here in District 12? Why does Davis hate you? Why is he calling you a whore? What's going on?"

"The Commissioner didn't want me appointed as Business Administrator," Meredith says. "Unfortunately for him, nobody else wanted the job, and none of the original surviving District 12 residents are capable of doing it…the few trained residents who administered this district were killed in the bombing. So they pretty much had to hire me."

"So Davis undermines you at every turn," I say. "He obviously can't attack you based on your abilities, so he attacks your character."

"He's made it clear he wants me gone," Meredith says. "He's just xenophobic. A lot of the people here distrust outsiders and the government. They don't like the construction workers, because when they require so much supplies, and when they're not working, they get drunk and blow off steam by misbehaving. They want their homes and shops finished, and they want to get out of the mines. Rebuilding District 12 is a real struggle."

"I can't believe he's accusing you of sleeping around," I repeat. "You haven't even slept with me…" my voice trails off.

Meredith smiles. "I know what you want to say. 'Yet.' I made a promise to you, I know."

"I promised you at the same time," I say. "I said I would rock your world."

"So what do you want to do, fair man," Meredith says, looking back at me, her eyes shining.

I stroke her hair. "I want to have you back in my life, I want to take you back to the Capitol, I want to introduce you to my friends and family…and I want to finally make love to you."

She strokes my hands. "I want the same things, too," she says. "But I don't know if I can go back with you to the Capitol."

"Well, I don't mean right now," I say. "I know you have a job here."

"No, it's not about the job here…that's going to end in five months, when they have the election. After Davis is elected Mayor, he's going to replace me with a District 12 resident. He's made that clear."

"Well, that's great…then there's nothing to stop you from coming to the Capitol."

Meredith strokes my hands. "Charlie, we have to talk. Somehow or other, you have to stay here, so we can talk about our…situation."

"I don't understand…what's going on?"

She kisses me tenderly. "You coming back here may be the best or the worst thing that ever happened to me in my life. And I don't know how it's going to turn out."

I hold Meredith tightly in my arms. "I spent the past seven months, wondering where you were. Asking about you. Hoping you were still alive. I can't live without you."

"I've got the same problem," Meredith says. "And that's what makes it so awful."

She stands up, still holding my hands in hers. "You came here to do a job," she says. "If you don't stay here, you can't do your job, and we can't solve this problem. I'm going to do everything in my power to make sure you and your photographer can stay here to do your story."

"That's good," I say. "Because I don't want to lose you again. And I'm not going to let anyone separate us again."

"All right," Meredith says, smiling.

**NOTE TO READERS:**

Here's Chapter 10, a little late.

Adding chapters will continue, but will get harder…we are having major disasters at work, and the shop I joined in 1998 with nine people is down to three, and we have lost two Communications Directors in six weeks, one involuntarily, one voluntarily.

I want to thank every single one of my readers for their support of this project. I am truly astonished at the readership levels. I hope they're enjoying this journey.

I know I am.


	11. Chapter 11

**INTERVIEW WITH THE MOCKINGJAY – Chapter 11**

Meredith tells me that she has to finish doing her prep for the evening's Town Meeting, and Archer is waiting for me, so I hold her again, enjoying her warmth in my arms after so long.

"You still look beautiful, dark lady," I say.

"And you're still handsome, fair man," she answers. "Now get your bags unpacked and call your paper. I'll see you at the Town Meeting."

I walk down the hall back to the police area, to find Archer and three cops gathered around a TV set, watching a news report. Archer is sitting on our bags.

"Ace, where's our transport," I start off.

Archer puts his finger to his lips. "Shh…it's about the terrorists."

I pay attention to the news. Apparently Panem troops and cops are sweeping the arena used for the 47th Hunger Games, having found evidence of a break-in to the fenced-off area. The troops are securing the scene while the cops process it. Apparently some kind of ceremony – or at least a picnic – was held on this particular arena. Among the items found is a video chip, which the police will review.

"I did a shoot at this site," Archer says. "It was mostly desert. Damn hot. Three of the Tributes died of thirst and heat in a week. During the tour, some of the tourists nearly passed out from heat prostration."

I shake my head in disgust. The newscasters show us shots of the live crime scene, and troops and police officers walking around, looking serious.

"Are they sure it was the terrorists," I say. "Maybe it was just a bunch of thrill-seekers."

"Boss, are you listening? They found a video chip left behind."

"Could have been tourists, who left behind their video," I say.

Archer looks at me in disgust. "No, they're leaving a message. I'll bet you on it."

I shrug my shoulders. When it comes to the behavior of these terrorists, he's right.

The footage of the incident scene is replaced by General Cassius Gray himself, immaculate as ever, facing the cameras.

"At this time, we cannot comment on the nature of the materials and debris that has been found at this Hunger Games Arena, but we can confirm that we have found a video chip. We will review this material. This is an ongoing investigation, and my only additional comment is that we will pursue these terrorists and bring them to justice," Gray says.

"You tell them, General," I say, mockingly.

Archer and the cops look at me, stunned. "That guy's a hero," one of the cops says. "He liberated the Capitol. Won the war."

"He was a pompous windbag in the war, and he's a pompous windbag now," I say.

Before the cops can defend the hero of the war, a male coal miner bounces into the Police Station, a typical District 12 resident with dark hair, dirty face, and miner's jacket. "What do you say and what do you know?" he hollers, enthusiastic.

"My man Thom!" shouts a police officer back, giving him a hand-slap. "The happy bridegroom!"

The cop throws his arm around Thom's shoulder. "Thom here is giving up bachelorhood on Friday, for his girlfriend Gloria," the cop says.

"Yeah, and the whole District is invited," Thom says. "What's everybody watching?"

"The troops are going over a Hunger Games Arena, where they found signs the terrorists have been hanging out," says a cop.

"No kidding," says Thom. He looks at the screen, and points at a man who is standing rigidly at attention before Gray. "That's my buddy! Gale to me, Colonel Hawthorne to you guys!"

"You and Gale are friends?" I ask.

"Since childhood…we did everything together. Well, except go hunting and fight in the war…but everything else! We dug coal in the mines!" he says, clearly enthused. "It's great to have friends going places!"

Interesting, I think.

He smacks his hands together. "Okay, where are the two guys I gotta pick up?"

"Right here," I say, introducing myself and Archer.

"Great," Thom says. "Let's get your bags loaded." He starts grabbing bags and takes them outside, and hops into a truck. We and the cops help Thom load the truck, and we climb into the seat.

"I'm Thom, by the way," he says.

"I guessed that," I say. "So you're getting married on Friday. Congratulations."

"Thanks," Thom says, as he starts the truck. "We got you guys a room, just like the BA requested. It's clean, with two beds."

"Has it got a shower," Archer asks.

"All the comforts of home," Thom says.

"Who's the lucky girl," I ask.

"Gloria McClain, from District 13," Thom says. "And we are excited."

"I'm sure you are," I say.

"So why are you two guys here," Thom asks, as the truck bounces over rutted roads.

"We're doing stories about District 12," I say, as I nudge Archer in the side. I don't want him to mention the Mockingjay. "How it's rebuilding after the war. How's that coming?"

Thom shrugs. "Well, we lost a lot of people, a lot of buildings, and had to start over basically from square one," he says. "This is our home, you know?"

We drive past a group of construction workers shuffling along. "What are they working on," I ask. "We aren't getting too many answers about what's going on around here."

"They're building new homes for the District residents and a new town square," Thom says. "Right now, most of us are living in these godawful temporary barracks. Temporary barracks, temporary stores, temporary offices, temporary loading platforms, temporary bars, and temporary people."

The truck bounces over a pothole. "Temporary roads," Thom says. "So the BA said you guys are with a newspaper?"

"**Panem Times**," I say. "How's the BA doing?"

Thom shrugs. "She's okay, I guess. Okay with me, that is. She runs the District pretty well, but I don't know…"

"What don't you know?" I ask. Archer gives me a look. He's puzzled.

"I hear shit…like she was kicked out of District 11, like she took money or something. And that she sleeps around. But I've never seen it. I think it's all bullshit, myself."

I ponder that statement for a long moment. "She's my girlfriend," I say at last.

Thom slams on the brakes and looks at me with wide eyes. "I'm sorry," he blurts. "I'm not going to get in trouble, am I?"

"I understand Commissioner Davis has been trashing her pretty regularly," I say, carefully picking my words. "I'd like to know why that's going on."

Thom gets the truck started again. "Commissioner doesn't like people from outside the District," Thom says. "All I know is that he's pissed that they stuck him with a BA who took money in another District. I don't know the details myself."

He pulls the truck into a parking space in front of another one of the ubiquitous modular buildings, and jumps out. "I'll get you a cart, so you can take your luggage to your room, and get you checked in," Thom says.

We pile out of the truck. Waiting for us is a bony old woman with gray hair. "I'm Greasy Sae," she says. "I run the billeting facility here. And the mess. You must be the reporters from the Capitol."

"That's us," I tell the old woman, shaking her hand. She walks us into the building, and goes behind an unpretentious hotel front desk. Behind us, Thom starts hauling in bags, placing them on a trolley.

Greasy Sae hands us two room keys. "242," she says. "You have mess numbers, so you won't have to pay for anything until you check out." She hands us a register to sign.

"We'll be billing everything to our newspaper," I say. "Is there a phone in the room? Are there any messages for us?"

"Funny you should ask," Greasy Sae says, reaching for a pile of pink slips. "I've taken six calls for you from someone named George Altman. I think you better call him back. He's pretty mad, and he got madder when I told him I didn't know who you were. Another from someone named Kae Lyn Harrington."

Archer and I look at each other. "Here's the latest disaster," I say to him. "Let me handle Altman."

"Yeah, like you've handled everything else," Archer says.

"Why don't you take that shower you want," I retort. I ask Greasy Sae where Room 242 is, and she points down the hall. We follow Thom and the trolley to the room.

As we plod down the hall, Archer says, "That reminds me…your girlfriend, Meredith…she is a stone-cold fox! And she is into you!"

I turn red, not knowing how to answer that one.

Archer continues, "But I'm getting tired of all the mystery stuff…what's this crap about her sleeping with the whole District? And did she really get kicked out of District 11?"

I spin on Archer. "First off, I can assure you, she is not 'sleeping around.'"

"Yeah? How do you know that?"

Angrily and impulsively, I yell, "She wouldn't even sleep with me! And I'm the love of her life! So I don't think she's going to sleep around." I turn back to follow Thom, who is some distance ahead of us. Hopefully, he hasn't heard me. Already, I'm regretting my openness with Archer. He has a remarkable knack for irritating people to make them open up. Maybe that's not such a bad thing for a journalist, I think.

"You never did her?" Archer asks. "You gotta be kidding me!"

Thom stops the trolley at Room 242, and I open the door. "Thanks, pal," I say.

"Sure, if you need anything, just call the front desk, and they'll connect you to me," he says, as he shoves the trolley into the room. He and I start unloading the gear.

"I'm going to take a shower," Archer says, striding into the bathroom.

Thom unloads the last piece of luggage, and takes the trolley out of the room. I sit down on the edge of one of the beds and stare down at the message blanks. "Altman," I mutter.

I dial the newspaper, and George Altman comes on the phone right away.

"Where the hell were you?" he asks, his voice slightly distorted by the long distance.

"We've had a fun day," I say. "We may be kicked out of here tomorrow."

"How did that happen?"

"You're not going to believe this shit," I say. I explain to him what has happened all day, giving him the short version, leading up to being re-united with Meredith.

"Well, I guess it wasn't a total loss," George says. "You hooked back up with your inamorata. And if she wasn't the Business Administrator of the District, you might be heading home by now, in a body bag."

"Yeah," I say. "I didn't know this District has a bunch of draconian anti-media ordinances on the books, though."

"I'll get our lawyers to work on that," George says. "Of course, by the time that gets resolved, it'll be six years from now. So what are you going to do? I would have thought that letter from the President would let you in."

"Didn't have much impact," I say. "Besides, they say I violated two District Ordinances by not checking in with the Commissioner and talking to the Mockingjay without their permission. So now I'm a lawbreaker."

"Those laws are ridiculous…that'll keep our lawyers busy. So what will you do?"

"I'm going to the Town Meeting, to argue our cause, and hope I can convince the residents to let us stay here," I say. "What else can I do?"

"Not much," George says. "I'll have our legal counsel appeal this ordinance here, see if we can find a judge to issue an injunction on it. I don't think we can, though. They've given the Districts a good deal of autonomy for the present. Once there's an elected national legislature, it'll be different."

"Yeah, I don't have time to wait for the constitutional intricacies," I say. I lean forward. "By the way, don't hook me up with Mr. Archer in future."

"What, he's causing problems?"

"He's got the diplomatic skills of a crazed bull. He's pissing me right the hell off. He's an arrogant ass, and he keeps asking about my personal life."

"Well, unfortunately, because you stumbled into your long-lost girlfriend, he's sort of trapped right in it. Look at it as a teachable moment."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask.

"It means that you can mentor him a little, and knock off the raw edges. Maybe he'll learn something out of it. Archer represents the generation we want to reach…the kids who are going to run Panem after we're through with it. They didn't get their chance to fight in the Hunger Games or in the war. Think of him as being like the terrorists General Gray is chasing."

"Yeah, I saw that on the news just now. What's the story on this video chip?"

"Naomi's reporter on the scene, Eric Soderholm, says that it's rumored to be a message from Caesar Flickerman himself. Telling kids to stand up and fight for their right to be in the Hunger Games. That is not confirmed."

"Wow," I say. "Where did that come from?"

"We have to find out," George says. "So will the Mockingjay talk to you over dinner?"

"Well, she told me that she is legally barred by the terms of her parole from leaving District 12, and that torques her off something fierce. Apparently even if she goes out of the fence to go hunting, she's violating parole. In theory, the local cops could and should arrest her for just going hunting deer. Fortunately, one good thing the Commissioner here is doing is ignoring that regulation."

"Bully for Mr. Davis," says George. "Make sure you report that."

"I intend to," I say. "Here's the thing…Katniss wants a condition of the interview that she get her ban on leaving the District lifted. I told her we would look into that."

Silence at the other end of the phone. "That's an interesting order, Charlie. How are we supposed to do that?"

"Maybe we can get our lawyers to look into that, as well. We can certainly advocate on the editorial page for a relaxation of the ban."

"I'll talk to editorial about it," George says. "And legal. Tell her we'll look into it. Anything else she wants from us?"

"Yeah, she's demanding to hear my war story."

"Well, I've been asking that for some time," George says. "If you tell her, you can tell us and our readers."

"That's a subject for another day," I say. "Listen, there's something else we have to check out. Who do we have covering District 11?"

"District 11? Nobody. Hell, putting you out in District 12 is costing us a bundle. What about District 11?"

"I heard from a source that Meredith is being accused of taking money from District 11 and being kicked out of that District."

George lets out a whistle.

"I think it's bullshit," I continue. "Like I said, the Commissioner here hates her guts, and is eager to spread lies about her. So I want Naomi to have somebody look into this and prove that it's bullshit."

"The finances in the Districts are a total mess," George says. "The war and the upheaval made it open season for anyone with larceny in their hearts or a penknife to grind." The man is still a walking cliché festival, I think.

"But you'll have Naomi look into it?" I ask.

"I'll talk with her and see what we can do. I can't imagine there was that much money to steal in District 11, anyway. All the Districts were broke. Still are," George says.

"Thanks, George. I'll keep you posted."

"Yeah, you two sound like you have had a quite the day. At least the odds are getting better in your favor."

"I'm sick of that cliché, George. Got anything better?"

"Well…do you really know how to make venison fajitas?" He laughs.

"I got the class from the food desk," I say. "They're not hard."

"Okay. You hang tough. Talk to you later."

With my boss disposed of, I call Kae Lyn on the number she gave me, as Archer emerges from the shower, wrapped in a towel. "George mad at us?" Archer asks.

"No," I say, without looking up. "He was just concerned that we hadn't checked in. He's mostly worried about this Town Meeting."

"That figures." Archer opens up a zippered bag to find clothing. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Apparently that video chip they found at the Hunger Games arena is a message from Caesar Flickerman himself, urging teenagers to fight for their right to party at the Hunger Games. But they're confirming that."

"No shit," Archer says. "That's huge."

"Yeah…I gotta call Kae Lyn. She's on it." I dial the number Greasy Sae gave me. It's not a number I'm familiar with. After some rings, wheezes, and hisses, Kae Lyn answers.

"Hey, Kae Lyn, it's Charlie. Where are you?"

"You'll never believe this, Charlie. I'm on a hoverplane at the 47th Hunger Games Arena."

I'm amazed. "How can you be taking a call on a hoverplane?"

"They issued me a cell phone," Kae Lyn says. "It's great. I can call anyone from nearly anywhere."

"A cell phone? What the hell is a cell phone?"

"It's a new technology…or I should say, it's re-discovered old technology. I got the first one the newspaper issued."

I turn to Archer. "Kae Lyn has a cell phone. She can call anyone from anywhere. Did you ever get issued a cell phone?"

Archer shrugs his shoulders. "I never even heard of a cell phone. How come they didn't give us one?"

"How come they didn't give us one?" I ask Kae Lyn.

"I guess they figure that since I'm going to be in movement on this story, and you're going to be in a fixed place in District 12, I needed it more than you."

Archer pulls on his shirt. "When you're done, I need that phone," he says. "I have to plug in my camera to my laptop and feed my photos to the desk."

I nod. He breaks out his laptop computer. "Get mine, too," I tell him. "I'll file my notes."

I tell Kae Lyn what has happened so far.

"So you met up with the Mockingjay," she says, when I reach that point. "Fabulous. So, is she crazy?"

"No, just defensive and quiet. And very pissed off. You know it's illegal for her to leave District 12? Every time she goes hunting, she's breaking the law. The one good thing the Commissioner here is doing is not enforcing that condition on her parole. I think she'd go berserk if she couldn't go hunting."

"You should go hunting with her," Kae Lyn says. "I bet she'd open up to you if you went for a walk in the woods."

"Another good idea," I say.

"I love being right all the time," Kae Lyn says, her voice scratchy. "Sounds like you've had a bizarre day."

"Yeah, and it gets better." I tell her about our meeting with Commissioner Davis, and lead up to its epilogue. "So you'd never believe who is the Business Administrator for this District."

"Caesar Flickerman."

"You wish…no, it's unbelievable. Meredith!"

There is a silence at the other end of the phone. Finally, Kae Lyn says, "Your Meredith? Meredith Jackson?"

"The one and only! She's running District 12!" I pause. "For once you were wrong!"

"You're kidding! It's like that old movie we saw: Of all the gin joints in all the world…"

"…I had to walk into hers," I finish up, remembering the film. "She's alive!"

"And she's still in love with you? Hasn't met another guy?"

"She flew into my arms," I say. Archer is sitting on his bed, with an amused expression. "Introduced me to her boss as her boyfriend. She's been here since the war ended."

"Well…how's she doing?" Kae Lyn asks.

"Not too well," I say, my voice dropping. "This District Commissioner hates her. He's spreading stories that she stole money in District 11 and is the town doorknob in District 12. He's really trying to undermine her, so he can get rid of her."

"That's got to be total bullshit," Kae Lyn squeaks. "She didn't even sleep with you, and she was into you from the moment you first met, and I know that for a fact."

"Well, you just assumed that at the time, based on her body language," I say.

"No, I know that for a fact," Kae Lyn repeats.

"How do you know that," I ask.

Another long silence. "I think she should tell you that," Kae Lyn answers. "Anyway, I can't believe she's a thief and a slut. I think that Commissioner just hates her guts."

"I asked her to come back to the Capitol with me when she's done here in District 12," I say. "She didn't really give me an answer."

"I think you threw too much at her. She's probably still amazed that you walked through the door. You haven't seen each other in seven months. And technically, you've never been on a date…I don't think you've even taken her out to dinner. You guys just ate together in the mess hall in training," Kae Lyn says. "That's not like going to a restaurant in the Capitol."

"Never thought of that."

"Why don't you try a little re-bonding first, and then carry her off into the sunset," Kae Lyn says. "You two have a lot to catch up on. And besides, she's right in the middle of a big job…she can't just pull up stakes overnight."

"You're right again," I say.

"I love being right all the time," Kae Lyn says.

"Well, 95 percent of the time," I answer.

Kae Lyn laughs. "Besides, I don't think she just wants to move in with you and share your apartment in the Capitol. She wants the ring. You'll have to go the distance."

There's a life-altering thought, I realize. "You've given me yet another thing to think about," I say. "As if I haven't got enough to deal with on this road trip."

Kae Lyn sighs at the other end of the line. "Any one who could win the war can cope with a few personal dramas at the same time," she says. "Just solve the big crisis first, interviewing the Mockingjay. Meredith isn't going anywhere."

She's right, as usual. I bid her goodbye, and turn the phone over to Archer, who hooks it up to his laptop computer, to download and transmit his photographs.

I break out my laptop computer, and start writing my first article, my account of our arrival in District 12 and first impressions. "I think I'll leave Meredith out of it," I say to Archer, "Except for her role as Business Administrator."

"Yeah, I don't think the readers care about your love life," Archer says, not looking up from his computer. "I just don't get how you two are so in love, but you never got it on."

"You still don't understand what was going on in the war," I say, not looking up, either. "You really need to have been in it."

"So what the hell happened with her?"

"Let me finish this paragraph, and I'll tell you," I say.

It is the fifth week of our training, and Meredith and I have stopped in mid-jog on the path at the lake, ostensibly to enjoy the charming sight, but actually we're stopped there for some passionate kissing and hugging. It is about the only place in the training center that we can find for any privacy and quiet.

With District 13 drill sergeants and instructors running the training, our time is strictly controlled. The period around sunset is usually for "reflection," so Meredith and I do our "reflecting" where we can get away from our fellow trainees. At first, we share Shakespeare with each other. Then we share music. Then we share stories about our childhoods with each other. Then we start holding hands. Now we're busy locking lips.

I kiss Meredith passionately, swirling my tongue into her mouth. We pull apart. "You're beautiful, you know."

She leans into my face. "And you're unbelievably handsome and sweet." She strokes my face and shoulders. "I'm glad I met you."

She is wearing her usual white tank top and blue running shorts…I am in t-shirt and running shorts myself. I can feel the heat of her perky breasts as I bury my head in her shoulder. "So am I," I whisper.

I pull back and gaze into Meredith's eyes. They are shining at me. I stroke her right cheek. She takes my hand and starts kissing my fingers. She stops at my middle finger and takes it into her mouth, swirls her tongue on it, and releases it again.

I am instantly aroused, and lick my lips. I reach forward and gently stroke her left breast through her tank top. Meredith closes her eyes, enjoying the sensation.

Then she opens them. Her eyes are tearing. "Stop," she moans.

I withdraw my hand from her breast immediately. "I'm sorry," I say. "I thought…"

"You thought right," she says. "I do want you to…I want to, but…"

"Say it," I say. "I won't condemn you for it."

"I don't want to get pregnant. Not here. Not now," Meredith says firmly.

I purse my lips and withdraw from her, to give her room. She is sitting down on our log, and draws her feet in and knees up, plopping her head down on them. She puts her hands together in front of her mouth, and rocks back and forth.

I look down at the ground, not sure what to say.

She's right, of course. We have no birth control. In the Capitol, they have shots that women can get that will turn off their ovulation until they take a second shot, which turns it back on. Out in the Districts, we have condoms. Sometimes.

But Gus Lewis has banned both birth control and sexual intercourse, with good reason. This is war to the death, and he does not want the stirrings of new life to prevent us from winning it.

I stare out at the lake, and the ducks and geese. They are quacking and honking at us.

Meredith is still rocking. I move back to her and wrap my arm around her. She slides in to me. "I don't think I'd be too upset if you had our kid," I say at last, trying to sound light. "But I agree we should not have one right now."

She smiles into my face, but her eyes are wet.

I kiss her on the cheek. "I'll wait for you," I sing.

"If I should fall behind, wait for me," Meredith answers. She has learned the song.

We hold each other in silence for a few moments. "When it's over," I say.

"When what's over?" Meredith asks.

"When the war is over," I say. "Then we'll have our time."

She touches my knee and squeezes it. "Thank you, Charlie. I didn't mean to lead you on like that…"

"I know. I love you, too," I say for the first time.

She leans over and kisses me passionately again. "I love you, too," she says, for her first time.

Then she slips from me, rises, and walks over to the edge of the lake, staring at the ducks. I gaze at the sensuous, slender line of her legs, rising up from the battered socks and sneakers, up to the bottom of her blue running shorts, and just make out her panty line. I am filled with checked desire and lust. She looks back at me, and smiles.

"I know what you're thinking," she says.

"Raging hormones," I say.

Meredith laughs. Then she folds her hands. "What will happen after the war?" she asks.

"We win, Gus Lewis keeps his promise and shoves his knife up Coriolanus Snow's ass, the tyranny is ended, and we live in a free nation."

"Yes, but what happens to us?" Meredith replies.

"That's a tough one." How can you think of a future in a world without war?

"We both know what the future is," Meredith says. "We're going to a battlefield. We may not even come back. And if we do, it could be as crippled wrecks." She faces me again.

I try to imagine her perfect face torn apart like the Tributes I have seen on television in the Hunger Games. Unfortunately, I succeed.

I rise and take her in my arms. "Whatever happens, I'm coming back to you. Whatever happens, we'll do it together. I'm not going to lose you or give you up. I'll come back for you."

"You promise?" She asks, looking up into my eyes.

I nod vigorously. "I promise," I say.

"All right," she says, smiling again. "I'll hold you to that." We kiss again. After that, she strokes my cheek. "I'll be waiting."

"And when this is over, I'll rock your world," I say.

Meredith laughs. "You'd better. And someplace a little more upscale than this."

"What's wrong with doing it in the bushes," I retort.

"Only that I want to be devoured by you, not the mosquitoes."

"Details, details," I say. "You can't have everything."

"Oh, no, I want absolutely everything," Meredith says. "Come on, let's finish up the run, before they wonder where we've been."

"So that was that," Archer says. "You agreed to hold off because you had no birth control."

"Yeah," I say.

"You know, the odds of making a kid were not that favorable…"

"I couldn't take that chance," I say. "We had a war to win."

"Yeah, but they might have won without one of you. Or both of you…"

"Or maybe not," I yell. "You still don't get it! The whole country's future was at stake! We couldn't put our personal desires over the goddamn war! Did you really want 100 more years of Hunger Games and starving Districts?"

Archer is stuck.

"You did, didn't you," I say. "You could go on taking rich Capitol people to Hunger Games arenas and take more pictures of them standing in front of old Cornucopias. Just like these goddamned terrorists."

"I'm nothing like these terrorists," Archer snaps. "I don't blow things up. And you don't know a damn thing about me!"

We both stare down at our computers for a while. Then I say, "Look, I'm sorry. We have to work together here. Let's not let our passions get in the way."

"The only passion I see here is that you've found your lost girlfriend," Archer says. "I just want to do this job and get out of here. You're the one who's giving in to your passions."

He's got me there.

The District 12 official mess hall is yet another modular building, and dinner is served cafeteria-style. It's a decent grade of chicken cordon bleu, with Greasy Sae overseeing the servers, watching everything.

After Archer and I take our trays to our table, Greasy Sae joins us.

"How's the food, gents?"

"Pretty good so far," I say, eating the salad. "Is any of this made here?"

"No, it all comes from the Capitol, except for the bread. Peeta Mellark bakes that every day."

"Well, it's good bread," Archer says.

Greasy Sae sits down and joins us. "I know why you're here," she says. "District 12 is a very small place. You're here to interview Katniss Everdeen. We think the world of her and Peeta, and we don't want her hurt any more. She's already suffered enough."

"I'm not here to hurt her, either," I say. "I just want to learn her story, so that we can get the nation back on its feet. I'm about rebuilding, not destroying."

"Well, you'll have to convince the Town Meeting about that," Greasy Sae says.

"How do we do that?" I ask.

She rises from the table. "Try telling them just what you told me," she says. Then she walks back behind the serving stations. Archer and I follow her with our eyes. We don't say anything to each other, but I take a legal-size notebook out of my bag, move my food tray, and start writing.

After a few moments, Archer asks, "What's that?"

"It's what I'm going to say tonight."

It's not hard to find the Town Meeting. An extremely large modular building sits opposite an uncompleted structure, which appears to be some kind of theater or auditorium.

The sun has set now, and floodlights light up the area. A heavy truck, loaded with materials for a construction site, thunders past.

District 12 residents are heading into the building, easily recognizable by their olive skin and dark hair, except for a few with blond hair. They must be the merchant class, I recall from my briefing papers.

Outside the building, I find Sam Horn, with some of his staff, all wearing their yellow vests. The aides clutch rolled-up blueprints, and one clutches a laptop computer. Sam bounds over to me, shaking my hand and slapping my back. "Charlie Allbright, glad you could make it! You're going to love our presentation!"

"Yeah, I'm looking forward to it," I say.

"They've pushed me back on the agenda, I just heard. Apparently you're up first. What's that about?"

"We'll…find out," I say. Out of the dark I hear people chanting behind me, "Four more years! The champ is here! Four more years! The champ is here!"

Behind me comes Commissioner Ron Davis, cleaned up but wearing a miner's jacket and jeans, smiling and shaking hands with all the District 12 residents he meets. Some of them receive hugs. He kisses women on the cheek, and pats the head of a teenage boy.

"They love this guy," Sam says. "He's one of them, a real miner. He gives me grief at every Town Meeting."

"What's the chant?" I ask.

"He's running unopposed for both District Mayor and District Senator," Sam says. "That's his election slogan."

"Real catchy," Archer says.

Commissioner Davis strides up to me and regards me critically. "Well, Mr. Allbright, now we'll decide your fate. It's up to my residents. I serve them, you follow?"

"I got it," I say.

He sweeps past me and into the building. Moments later, Meredith arrives, lugging a briefcase, followed by an aide. We embrace. "Are you ready?" she asks.

I hold up my notebook. "I've got something ready," I say. I lean into her and say quietly, "We have to talk later…they're really sabotaging you around here."

"I know," she whispers back. "They all think I'm a slut."

"No, it's not that…there's something else."

She pulls back from me. "What?" she asks.

"Something about money."

Her eyes widen and she turns slightly pale. "We'll talk. It's complicated," she says. "But it doesn't change how I feel about you." She leans back and kisses me again, and we hold each other.

I hear a male voice say, "You know, you two look good together."

We break the kiss, and there's Katniss Everdeen standing there with Peeta Mellark. Peeta is the author of the comment.

Meredith moves toward Katniss and they kiss each other on the cheeks in greeting, and Meredith does the same to Peeta.

"I didn't realize this was the guy you were talking about," Katniss says, pointing at me. "I guess I should have figured it out."

Meredith blushes. "I told Katniss about you and me," she says.

"Lies, lies, all of it," I say. "Never laid a hand on her."

"I know," Katniss says, giving me a flicker of a smile. "She said you were the perfect gentleman." She points at us. "But Peeta's right, you two do look good together."

"Are we still on for the venison fajitas?" I ask, trying to keep things light.

"I guess we'll find out," Katniss says.

"I talked to my newspaper about your issue about being unable to leave the District," I say. "They're going to work on that."

"Good," Katniss says. "Glad to hear it."

"Where's Haymitch?" Meredith asks.

"Passed out drunk on his floor," Peeta says. "They delivered his liquor to him this morning. He gave me his proxy."

"Why don't we get inside," Archer says. "It's getting cold out here."

The meeting hall is set up like a vast lecture hall, with hundreds of chairs and little desks facing a center table. A TV crew has cameras set up to make a DVD of the proceedings for the official record. Sam and his pals sit down up front, setting up a screen, their laptop computer, and a projector. They move quickly and without fuss. Their presentations on construction progress are obviously a regular feature of the Town Meetings. Everyone takes a copy of the meeting's agenda as they enter the hall.

Katniss and Peeta are sitting in a far right-hand corner of the upper deck of the auditorium, and have a small table in front of their seats, with glasses of water. District 12's two most famous citizens and Hunger Games winners rate special treatment, obviously.

At the desk in front of the hall, Meredith sits next to Ron Davis. She breaks out her briefcase and starts placing papers on the desk. I notice that she and Davis do not greet each other. Two clerks sit next to Meredith.

Davis bangs a gavel on the table, and announces, "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. How are you all doing tonight?"

Various answers come back as a roar, variations of "Doing fine, Commissioner."

Davis grins broadly. "Glad to hear it. District 12! Best District in Panem!" I am seeing a very different commissioner from the man who yelled at me in the police station. This Ron Davis is a cheerleader and a man of the people. He clearly knows how to play them.

Meredith reads from her agenda. After some legalistic preliminaries to bring the meeting to order, she says, "Tonight, we are switching our usual order of business, to accommodate an action item placed on the agenda by the Commissioner." She turns to Davis and nods.

Commissioner Davis rises from his seat and accepts a cordless microphone from an aide. "Good evening. As most of you know by now, this afternoon, a reporter from the Capitol…"

The word is greeted by hisses in the audience. Davis smiles. "A reporter from the Capitol, Charlie Allbright, of the **Panem Times**, and his photographer, Ace Archer, arrived in our District today."

Archer pulls out his camera and starts moving around to take pictures. At the very least, we'll have a story about the Town Meeting. Davis ignores my cameraman, but the people in the audience stare at him and at me.

Davis walks around the front of the lecture hall. "Now, I think you all know that Mr. Allbright and Mr. Archer violated two of our Town Ordinances when they came here. They didn't check in with my office, and they went right up to our beloved Katniss Everdeen…" He nods toward Katniss, and she sips her drink.

"…Our beloved Katniss Everdeen and started interrogating her. Now we're all learning about the new notion of freedom of the press, and freedom of speech, and right here, we're enjoying other new freedoms, right to free assembly and to petition for the redress of our grievances." Davis looks right into the eyes of some of the attendees.

"And we're learning about petitioning for the redress of our grievances right here," he continues. "And while we're learning about these rights, we do know about the Capitol! We know how they've starved us for 75 years, they've taken our children, they've tortured us, whipped us, beaten us, and then they bombed our District into rubble! And since the rebellion, since the war, the Capitol has come here, saying they're going to rebuild our District. And what have they done? They've filled us up with 3,000 construction workers, who have spent the last seven months building facilities mostly for themselves! And what have we District 12 residents been doing? We've been going back in the mines, doing double shifts, just like before the war!"

Audience members nod, applaud, and cheer. Sam Horn and his construction crew look pale and embarrassed.

"So we know about the Capitol! And we have grievances against the Capitol! We want to know when the Capitol is going to build our new homes and shops! We want to know when the Capitol is going to compensate us for the losses we've suffered! We want to know when the Capitol is going to get us out of the mines and get us those safe and high-paying jobs in the medicine factory they promised us! We want to know when the Capitol is going to ask us, the residents of District 12, just how District 12 should rebuild itself!"

More cheering, and supportive yells. I look over at Katniss and Peeta. They glance at each other and back at Davis. I see Greasy Sae and Thom in the audience, too.

Davis continues. "Now, this is a Town Meeting, not an election rally…"

The audience laughs.

"But I can tell you that when I am elected this District's Mayor and Senator, the Capitol will hear from me…and that means they'll hear from all of you!"

More applause.

"So what has the Capitol done now? Have they sent us coal miners to relieve our workers? No! Have they disciplined the drunken construction workers who get into fights and urinate on our property? No! Have they moved ahead on building our new homes? No! What have they done? They've sent us a reporter, from a daily newspaper in the Capitol, and he says he's here to tell the story about District 12!"

Davis points at me, and everyone looks at me. Archer gets the shot of Davis pointing at me.

"Well, I don't think he's here to tell our story at all! I think he's here for one reason, and one reason alone! To tell the same old story! That District 12 is a bunch of inbred hillbillies and charming yokels. He'll tell his readers that Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark are crazy! He'll tell them that the Capitol is doing a great job of making District 12 safe…for Capitol residents to visit, like an old Hunger Games arena. And that we don't count."

Davis saunters across the stage. Meredith looks livid.

"So I'm here to ask you tonight, as the residents and citizens of District 12, to give our answer to the Capitol, and all of its lying, wealthy…Hunger Games sponsors," he makes the phrase sound like an epithet, "that District 12 is strong, District 12 is proud, District 12 stands tall, and we will not allow liars to come here and misrepresent us to the rest of Panem!"

His speech is greeted with hearty applause. Greasy Sae does not applaud. Neither do Katniss or Peeta.

Davis walks back to his table and hands his cordless microphone to Meredith. She reads out a resolution calling for the expulsion of me and Archer, for violating the two District ordinances, in precise, clipped language. "Any seconds?" she finishes.

Many people raise their hands. Davis sits next to Meredith, grinning.

"All right," Meredith says. She looks right at me. "Mr. Allbright?" she asks.

This is my moment. I rise from my seat, carrying my notebook, with my scribbled speech on it. As I pass Archer, he thumps my fist. "Do it, boss," he says.

I walk over to the main table, grab the cordless mike with one hand, and look at my speech, held in the other.

"Good evening," I say. I look into the faces of the residents. They've been whipped up by Davis's speech, but I sense that they are not his mere puppets. "My name's Charlie Allbright, I am a reporter for the **Panem Times**, and I am here to do a story about District 12 and Katniss Everdeen." I pause. "And I want you to know who and what I am, and why I'm here."

I lean against the podium. "It's absolutely true, I took the train down from the Capitol yesterday. But I'm not originally from the Capitol. I'm from District 2, as it happens. I guess that may make it worse, I'll admit it."

There is a rumble from the crowd.

"You won't like this much, either. My father was a Peacekeeper."

The audience reacts with mutters to each other, gasps, and expressions of surprise. They are used to the idea of Peacekeepers being celibate for their 20 years of bullying.

I smile. "Yeah, that surprises a lot of people. But he was a Peacekeeper. I can't tell you what he did in his career. I don't even know if he was ever stationed here." I pause. "But I can tell you this. I was never a Peacekeeper. When the rebellion started, I joined the rebellion. My father urged me to do so."

I glance around the room. Katniss is eyeing me closely. "I served in the rebellion and the war. I'm a combat veteran. I was a combat correspondent, and I commanded a platoon of light infantry in a unit we called the 'Black Devils.' The official name was the 1st Special Service Force. Some of you may have heard of it."

People look at each other in agreement. Sam Horn watches me intently.

"I fought in a number of battles, against the Peacekeepers. Yes, I killed a number of them. I also saw a great number of my friends get killed, including my commanding officer. I know, personally, what the war and the rebellion was about."

There is silence after I say that.

"After the Black Devils were disbanded, I fought in another unit to help liberate the Capitol. I helped to capture President Snow's palace. Since then, I've been working for the newspaper. I've been covering the war crimes trials, reporting about the proceedings against the very people who starved, tortured, and bombed you."

I look at Meredith. She is giving me a warm smile. Archer snaps a photo of me.

"Ace Archer is my photographer. He's a good one, and he's not from the Capitol, either. He originally hails from District 1. He's a pretty good cameraman."

Archer waves at the audience.

I walk around the stage area. "Now, what Commissioner Davis said is partly right. I am here to do a story about Katniss and District 12. I didn't check in when I came here, and I did start talking with Katniss without anybody's permission. In my defense, I didn't know that was illegal. If I had known that doing was breaking the law, I would not have done it. I do my job in an ethical manner."

I look at my notebook, and go on speaking.

"Which brings me to my next point. I am not here to tell lies about District 12. I am not here to misrepresent you, or Katniss Everdeen. I came here with a very simple order: tell the truth. I'm not here to make anyone look bad, not here to harm anyone, least of all Katniss Everdeen. I'm about rebuilding, not destroying," I say, looking at Greasy Sae. A smile flickers across her face.

"Your Commissioner has indicated that you feel that the Capitol is not listening to you, that they've shoved you back in the mines, and that they are still mistreating you." I pause for effect. "That's the story I want to bring back to the Capitol when I leave here. I can put that story before the entire nation. And if you let me, I will."

The only sound is the shuffle of papers and feet.

"I'm here to interview Katniss Everdeen. The entire country knows her name, but not her story. A lot of people have used her to send messages to inspire the rebellion. I want to tell her story. The entire nation was inspired by her to win the war. The entire nation needs to be inspired by her to win the peace."

I circle around in front of the seated residents. "I'm not here to harm Katniss Everdeen. I'm not here to make her look bad, and I'm not here to make her look crazy. I'm here to tell her story. I want to make that clear. Katniss's story. Not my story, or my version of her story. Katniss's story."

I walk back to the table. Davis fumes. I sip some water, and resume my speech. "A lot of you are concerned that I'm invading Katniss's privacy. Well, you have a right to feel that way. And maybe she doesn't want to tell that story. But I think that decision is up to Katniss. A lot of people have been using Katniss in the Hunger Games, in the war, and I think it's time we let Katniss decide for herself what she wants to do.

"Katniss and I agreed that I'm going to cook dinner for her and Peeta and my photographer tomorrow night at her home." I look back at Meredith. "Your Business Administrator wangled herself an invitation as well." She looks down at the table and laughs.

"I'll be honest with you…Meredith and I have a relationship." I look back at her. We smile at each other. "I didn't know she was even here until I got here." I look back at the audience. "So I have a very good reason not to write unfavorable things about this District and its residents. I kind of have a vested interest in it."

The audience laughs. I wait until they're done.

"So I'm going to finish this up by re-stating what I said before…I'm not an ogre. I'm about rebuilding, not destroying. I'm here to tell the truth, not to make anyone look bad. I'm here to tell Katniss's story. I think that decision should be made by Katniss herself, and I think that discussion should be between me and her. All I want from you is an opportunity to write about what's really going on in District 12, and make my case to Katniss, in private, and let her decide whether or not she wants to do this story."

I gaze around the room.

"That's all I've got," I say. "Thank you for your time and for hearing me out. Whatever happens, I'm damned glad I got a chance to come here and see how strong you are in the face of so much adversity."

I walk back to the table, and hand my cordless mike to Meredith. She beams at me, and gives me a thumbs-up. Davis has his mouth on top of his hands. I see Archer out of the corner of my eye, and he's giving me a thumbs-up, too.

I turn around. The audience is silent, pondering what I've just said. I return to my seat, and cup my mouth in my hand. I'm shaking and nervous. I can't believe what I've just done.

Davis grabs the cordless mike, and says, "Does anyone want to comment on what we've just heard?"

"I would," says a thin voice in the upper corner. We all turn to look.

Peeta is rising to his feet. An assistant dashes over to him with another cordless microphone, and Peeta takes it.

Everyone turns toward the baker, who hobbles for a moment on his prosthetic leg, and then stands up straight.

"State your name," Davis says from his table, sounding ritualistic.

"Peeta Mellark," comes the answer, "and I just want to say that I agree with Mr. Allbright. I think we should let Katniss make her decision on whether or not she wants to be interviewed. And I think it's time someone told our District's story. Maybe if people in the Capitol know what we've gone through and what we're going through, things will get better for us."

Everyone stares at the blond baker.

"A lot of stuff has been told about us. This guy wants to know what we think, and he wants to hear it straight from us. I think we should talk to him."

He looks down at Katniss. She smiles up at him. Maybe there is something going on here between them, I think.

Peeta looks back at the stage. "Besides, I want to try those venison fajitas." He sits back down.

Everyone looks back at me. Commissioner Davis looks flushed. Meredith covers her face with some papers.

Then I hear the sound of clapping. I look to the source, and it's Greasy Sae, applauding Peeta's little speech – and mine. Other hands start joining her, and suddenly the entire audience is applauding.

Archer snaps a photo of a grim-looking Davis, then returns to his seat next to me. "Either we're staying or he's going to kill us," Archer says.

The applause goes on, and finally stops. Davis grabs his microphone. "Anyone else want to speak?"

Dead silence in the hall.

"Then we'll take the vote. All in favor of expelling Mr. Allbright and Mr. Archer?"

A few hands go up. Meredith counts them. Fifteen or so.

"All opposed to expelling the reporters?"

700 hands shoot up in the air. Meredith tries to count them, pointing her pen at the crowd, but Davis stops her, grabbing her hand. "Don't bother," he says, lowering her hand.

Davis slouches back in his chair for what seems to be the longest time. Then he rises slowly, a smile drawing across his face. "Well, I am the servant of my people, and they have spoken clearly and almost unanimously. So I am at their service. Mr. Allbright, Mr. Archer, welcome to District 12. I hope you enjoy your stay."

He bows slightly to us. I rise from my seat. "Thank you, Commissioner," I say. "We'll try not to get in the way."

Then I sit down. Meredith is beaming at me. Then she looks down at her agenda. "All right," she says. "Moving on to the next item on our agenda. Mr. Horn's latest report…"

She is cut off by a vast audience groan, as Sam and his crew set up their laptop computer and their screens to give their report. Obviously the residents have heard him before, and they are not satisfied with the speed of the workers' efforts.

Meredith whacks her gavel. "While Mr. Horn sets up his gear, why don't we take a 10-minute break," she says.

I crumple in my chair, exhausted. "You won this one, boss," Archer says to me.

"I feel washed out," I say. "That's it. I'm done."

"Yeah…you want to bail out?"

I rub my eyes. "We can't. We have to cover the Town Meeting, and file a story on it." I climb out of my seat.

"Where are you going?" Archer asks.

"I have to thank some people," I say. I dodge through the milling residents, some of whom are trekking to a refreshments stand, others to the bathroom, towards Katniss and Peeta at their table.

The baker and the Mockingjay are quietly sitting there. Katniss is reading the meeting agenda. I extend my right hand to Peeta. "I want to thank you for what you did," I say.

He accepts my hand. "I think it would be wrong to silence you," he says. "Katniss and I know a little bit about sending messages to the public."

"I haven't decided yet whether or not to let you interview me," Katniss says, not looking up. "But I don't think the Commissioner should stop you from doing stories about the District. I've had enough of powerful people abusing their power."

"Well, thanks all the same," I say. "And we're still on for the fajitas."

Katniss looks up at me and smiles slightly. "I don't want to miss those," she says. "And I want to hear about you and Meredith…as well as your war."

"You'll get plenty of both," I say.

I walk down through the people and bump into Greasy Sae, who is coming towards me. I reach for her hands and take them in mine. "I want to thank you, too," I say.

"You're welcome," she says. "Commissioner Davis fights for us, but sometimes he gets over-excited."

"Does he really have your best interests in mind?" I ask. "He seems like he's promoting himself."

"Both," Greasy Sae says. "You did good," she says, squeezing my hand. Then she moves past me.

Finally I head down to the big table, where Davis is talking with two aides, and Meredith is getting her agenda straight for the rest of the evening.

"It's going to be a long night," she says. "Are you staying for the whole thing?"

"I have to," I answer. "It's a story. Can we get together after the meeting?"

Meredith smiles sadly. "I'd love to," she says, "But I'm going to be exhausted when this is done. Meet me at my office tomorrow morning, around 10 a.m. I'll give you a tour of the District."

"I want to be with you," I croak. "I've missed you so much…we need to catch up…"

Meredith strokes my left cheek. "I missed you too, fair man. But we've got jobs to do first."

I grasp her hand in mine. "I know…I just don't want to lose you again, dark lady."

Meredith smiles sweetly. "You won't." We lean forward and kiss each other, in full view of the entire population of District 12.

Commissioner Davis and his aides are also staring at us. The Commissioner wears a defeated expression.

I offer him my hand. "What I said holds, Commissioner," I say. "I'm not here to do a hatchet job on your District. I'm here to report the truth."

Davis grudgingly accepts my hand. "Don't fuck with us," he says. "Don't fuck with the Mockingjay. You follow?"

"I follow," I say, not sure what other answer to give.

Davis nods vigorously, and sits down at his table, and starts pawing through the agenda with Meredith. I notice their tones and body language toward each other is clipped and distant.

One of Davis's aides, a typical District 12 young woman, with olive skin and dark hair, gives me a studious look, as if she's appraising me.

"I'm Linda," she says. "Linda Morrison. Commissioner Davis's aide."

"Nice to meet you, Linda," I say. "You look like you have something on your mind."

"No, nothing huge," she says. "I was just thinking…" she points at Meredith and then at me. "You and the BA look good together."

I chuckle. "Several people have said that today," I answer. I pat her on the shoulder, and return slowly to my seat, passing through the residents, who are returning to theirs as well. Some of them pat me on the shoulder, others offer me their hand, or mutter, "Nice speech." I feel too tired to feel triumphant.

As I walk back to my seat, moving through the desks and chairs, I have a flashback…I am walking away from one of the battles at the Bridge, having just fought behind Mark Salmon, Gus Lewis, and Kae Lyn, to rout an incoming charge of Peacekeepers. I can see the bodies of them, their white uniforms torn and shredded, blood drenching the desks and chairs, intestines and organs hanging out, dying Peacekeepers groaning in death agonies, the air filled with the acrid stink of cordite and lead, smoke drifting away.

And I see Gus Lewis standing over the scene, arms folded, shaking his head, and saying, "There is nothing half so melancholy as a battle won…except a battle lost."

I have to tell that story tomorrow night. And all the other stories of my war. I've just won a battle, and it feels melancholy. I wonder if I'm up it.

Archer slumps into the seat next to mine, checking his pictures on his camera, and looks at my distant expression. "Are you okay, boss?"

I repeat Gus Lewis's quote about the melancholy battlefield.

"Sorry, I don't get it," Archer says. "What do you mean?"

"I mean it might have been better if we had simply been kicked out of here and sent home," I say.

Archer's eyes look into mine. Then he says, "I think I get it."

"All right," Meredith says from across the room. "Let's get on with the next item on the agenda…"

I sit up in my chair, flip a page in my notebook, and focus as Sam Horn gets up to do his presentation.

**Sorry, folks, I put this chapter up, took it down, and put it up again...I put up the wrong version of this chapter...I am dealing with computer crashes, and I posted the earlier version of this chapter. This is the final edition.**

**This took a while to write, for obvious reasons, and I apologize for the delay. I have been working 12-hour days, and my computer is locking up and freezing every time I use the Internet. It is most frustrating.**


	12. Chapter 12

**INTERVIEW WITH THE MOCKINGJAY – Chapter 12**

Sam Horn sets up his screen and starts giving his presentation, updating the status of the various construction projects around District 12. Clearly, this is the usual highlight of the Town Meeting.

The thick-bearded construction manager, peppy as usual, starts off with photographs of the latest work, then follows with graphs and charts, rattling off numbers and statistics of the accomplishments of the last two weeks. Most of that seems to have consisted of building additional modular huts to accommodate additional workers who are coming down by train next week, to overcome recurring delays on constructing the housing complex that will replace the homes that have been blasted by the Capitol when it bombed the District in the war.

It's hard for me to follow the presentation. Exhaustion is finally kicking in. I cannot read my own notes. Archer shoves me in the side. "Wake up, boss."

I rub my eyes and yawn. "Is he saying anything important?"

"He's going to take questions when he's finished. You might want to hear them."

I straighten up in my seat. I could use a cup of coffee right about now, I think. I glance over at Peeta and Katniss. They seem almost bored with the presentation.

Finally, Sam wraps up his report, and asks, "Any questions?" He wears a big smile.

A forest of hands shoots up. Linda Morrison walks her remote microphone over to an olive-skinned woman, who barks, "Yeah, when…do we move into our homes?"

Sam's smile vanishes. "We're looking at late spring."

Groans from the audience.

Someone else asks, "What about the medicines factory? When do we get out of the mines?"

Ron Davis answers that one. "As I said in the last meeting, we don't have a date for the medicinal factory, or for when we can close the mines. However, I will fight for both those issues." He grins broadly.

There is a roar of cheers and applause. "He must be referring to is election as District Senator," I say to Archer.

"Really," Archer answers. "I never would have guessed."

After the applause, another question, this from a grim man holding a young girl on the shoulder. "I want to know when these damn workers are going to start behaving themselves, Mr. Horn!"

"What's the problem, Mr. Middlebrook," Sam answers.

"The other night, my daughter heard noises under her window. She woke up and found…she found…do I have to say it?"

Meredith says, "You don't have to give details."

"Two construction workers…doing something they shouldn't be doing in public! I went outside and chased them away!"

Sam gulps, rolls his eyes, and flushes red.

"And this isn't the first time," Middlebrook says. "I don't understand why these construction workers can't behave themselves. They're guests in our house!" He sits down. Everyone applauds.

Sam slowly walks across the room. "I know…there have been a number of… incidents."

The audience laughs. I take notes.

"But I assure you, we take them seriously when they are reported…"

The audience groans.

Sam spreads his hands wide. "My guys work 10- and 12-hour days, too! Sometimes they get a little out of control…but when we have incidents, we crack down. I am truly sorry these things happen. We will punish any worker who breaks the laws of the District. We always have."

The response is a mixed mutter of approval and disbelief.

Another resident, an elderly lady, takes the microphone. "Look, we just want the work done, and any worker who doesn't want to stay here, to leave. We want the coal mines closed down, and our new business district opened up." The woman looks right at me. "So I want you to write that down and put that in your newspaper!"

The residents look at me and applaud. So does Davis. He knows how to read his people, I think.

Sam looks nervous. His immense red beard bobs. He slaps the smile back on his face. "Well, we're all working hard, and we'll get the job done!" he says, buoyantly.

After Sam finishes his presentation, the meeting moves on to more routine matters: resolutions authorizing expenditures to repair the barbed-wire fence that encloses the District, discussions about the water treatment facility, a report from Police Chief Angelica Barnes on the recent arrests and summonses issued – I am not mentioned – and a vote of welcome and best wishes to a pair of schoolteachers freshly assigned to the District.

As the meeting breaks up, I collar some of the residents for comment on the proceedings, getting their quotes, while Archer snaps more photographs. The residents mill with each other, talking. Some argue with Sam Horn and his aides, and one of the aides pulls out a notebook to take down complaints. Ron Davis effusively greets residents as he leaves, and Meredith packs up her kit.

I wobble down to the front again. "You look exhausted," I say.

"I am," she answers, as she stacks her papers and ledgers. She looks up at me with wet eyes and a beaming face. "I'd invite you home, but I have to finish tonight's paperwork."

"I have to turn tonight's meeting into a story. It'll probably run not in tomorrow's paper, but the day after." I glance at my watch. "Yeah, the day after."

We stare at each other, weary, reunited, but unable to reunite. "I want to be with you," I say at last. "We have so much catching up to do." I stroke her face, heedless of the official nature of the situation. I know it's unprofessional, but I can't hold back.

Meredith takes my hand and kisses my fingers. Then she leans forward and kisses me. When our lips part, she says, "I know. I'll give you the tour of the District tomorrow, and then we have dinner with Katniss…how about then. After we're done with Katniss, I'm yours. Will you wait for me, fair man?"

"I'll wait for you, dark lady," I answer. "If I fall behind…"

"…Wait for me," she finishes. I kiss her again across the table, and we pull apart. I watch her retreat from me. She turns her head back as she goes, like she did the first time we met, and so many times after that, gives me that impish smile, and exits through a door.

And Katniss and Peeta are standing there.

"So I guess we're having dinner after all," Katniss says. "What time?"

I break out of my reverie. "Yes…yes…I'll come over at 4:30 and start cooking. We'll eat at 6."

"Fine," Katniss says. "See you tomorrow." Peeta waves at us, and the first couple of District 12 turns and heads home.

"Let's get this story filed," I say to Archer. "Then I gotta crash."

"You and me both," Archer says.

It takes us another hour and a half to do our work…Archer to go through his photographs, select the best, and prepare captions, me to write my article.

After we are done, I call the editorial desk, and get Harry Byrne on the line. He is, indeed, putting the paper to bed.

"Your story about this Town Meeting won't get into the paper tonight," he says, in his familiar grating voice. "But your feature on your arrival in the District is going above the fold, with art."

"They're using your pictures above the fold," I say to Archer. He grins and gives me a thumbs-up. It's prestigious for him. "What's the lead story?" I ask Harry.

"The Army is not revealing the contents of the video chip they found at the Hunger Games site, but Eric and Kae Lyn think they'll be able to get a copy from a source."

I cup the phone. "They think they can get a copy of that video chip from that Hunger Games site from a source."

"I'll bet the source is Gale Hawthorne," Archer says.

"What else is in the paper," I ask Harry.

I hear shuffling sounds, and he answers, "War crimes trials, organization meeting for the new Senate, continued investigation of the killings in District 1, and a science story…a former Tribute named Beetee has made some kind of breakthrough in District 3, about electrical power. It may eliminate the need for fossil fuels and even nuclear power."

"Eliminate the need for fossil fuels?" I say. "That would make a lot of coal miners in District 12 very happy. What's this about?"

More shuffling. "Apparently this Beetee character has made a breakthrough involving some research done hundreds of years ago by someone named Nikola Tesla. Have you ever heard of him?"

"Doesn't ring a bell. Beetee sounds familiar." I nod at Archer. "You ever heard of a Tribute named Beetee?"

"Hell, yes. He's a fucking genius. From District 3. He represented the District in the 75th Hunger Games. Helped blow the games up. Then he was very big in breaking through the Capitol's TV broadcasts during the war."

Then I remember the name. He jammed the Capitol's communications and took them over for the rebellion. "Well, we'll share this with Katniss and Peeta. They'll be very interested in this news."

"What news," Archer asks.

"Beetee has made some kind of breakthrough in electrical power, Harry says. It would close down the coal and nuclear power industries. Make them obsolete."

Archer lets out a whistle. "That'll make District 12 happy." He points at the phone. "You got Harry waiting for you."

I finish up with the editor. "We've got a long day ahead of us, Harry. I'm getting you an overall piece on District 12 tomorrow, from the Business Administrator."

"Are you going to interview her, too?" he asks.

I smile. "Writing a story about her might be a conflict of interest for me," I say, "But I think we should do a story on her."

"When do we get the big story on the Mockingjay," Harry asks.

"That's still up in the air."

"Well, Altman told me to tell you to get the damn thing, and don't take no for an answer."

No shit, I think. "I'm trying, Harry. Good night."

After I hang up the phone, I crash onto the bed, exhausted. It's nearly midnight. I'm whipped, and I have a lot more to do.

Archer hits the lights. Then, out of the dark, "If you have any more nightmares, I'll punch you out, so at least I can get some sleep."

Actually, for once, I don't have any nightmares.

My alarm clock wakes us up at 8 a.m., and I let Archer get cleaned up first, preferring to take a few minutes to open the room's curtains and stare outside. Near us is yet another modular building, but this one appears to be a school, and a bunch of kids, probably the school's entire student body, mill around the building's door with their parents, waiting to go in. The future of District 12 is a tiny community. They will need more residents, I think.

Breakfast in the messhall is sausage, hash browns, and toast, with plenty of coffee. On the wall, a big-screen TV broadcasts the morning news. The army and cops are still pursuing the terrorists, who have vanished. General Gray's troops are searching high and low for them. The video chip is not being released. The government is considering allowing construction workers doing repair and rebuilding work in the various districts to bring their families out to those districts, if they choose to live there. A live theater opening up in the Capitol to perform plays, which are being unearthed from various bookshelves in the Districts, being compiled and reprinted in the Capitol, to try to restore culture.

At 10 a.m., we are outside the messhall, and Meredith and Sam Horn arrive in an all-terrain vehicle, Meredith driving, wearing the usual jeans and a dark blue windbreaker, ready to give us the official tour of District 12. She has her hair in a pony tail – she has not taken time to do any styling.

We embrace, and I climb into the jeep, sitting next to her. "Sleep well?" she asks.

"I did, for once," I say.

She looks at me carefully. "You're having nightmares, too?"

I nod my head. Meredith looks ahead. "So do I," she says. She shifts gears, and we bounce off and onto the rutted road, to tour District 12.

Sam Horn, as expected, does a lot of the talking. The big plan to rebuild the shattered district is a mixture of simplicity and grandiosity. The original town center is to be preserved as a "stabilized ruin" and as a memorial to the residents who were slaughtered by the Capitol. The last project that will be done by the workers will be to create a memorial plaque that will list all the District 12 residents killed in the bombing and the war. The only things spared by the air attacks, he says, were the coal mines and the Victors' Village.

The first project was to build the rows of modular buildings, to provide temporary housing for construction workers and District 12 residents alike, along with office space, workshops, garages, administrative facilities, a medical clinic, and stores. Building that took longer than expected, because the District lacked water, power, and roads.

Next, Sam's crews started laying out residential neighborhoods, a shopping center, and an administrative area, as well as the space for the planned medicines factory. But when they began that work, the need for coal in the Capitol and Districts became fierce, and Sam's crews had to put everything aside to re-open the coal mines and restore the coal sorting and loading facilities.

That has pushed back the timetable on all the other projects, especially the residential center.

"Why do they want to build a medicine factory here in District 12," I ask Meredith. "They could build that anywhere. They could build any kind of business here."

"The plant life in this District has a great deal of medicinal value," Meredith says. "They want to combine that with the latest medical technology to create more powerful drugs," she says. "This District will ultimately become farmland for herbal-based medicine. They think it would replace morphling, and be less addictive."

We thunder along by the immense barbed-wire fence. "That's not to keep people in," Meredith says. "That's to keep wild animals and intruders out. It's the exact same fence that was here before the war." She points at a sign on the fence. It warns people that the fence is electrified. "That's from before the war," she says. "We haven't had the time or manpower to remove those signs."

We roll along and stop at a wide gate in the fence. Meredith hops out. "You might want a photograph of this," she says.

A police officer mans the gate, sitting at a desk. He jumps to attention as Meredith walks over. "I'm not used to that," she says. "They do it because of my job."

Archer breaks out his camera to take photograph of the three of us. "What's the significance of this gate," I ask.

"This is Katniss's gate," Meredith says. "That's even the gate's name. Aside from the rail link, it's the only way in or out of the District by land. Sometime after I was appointed Business Administrator, she told me she was getting tired of having to crawl under the fence to go hunting every day. So I ordered this gate put in. Eventually, when they start farming, we'll use some of the fields near here, and the farmers and farm workers will also go through here."

"How will Katniss be able to hunt if there are farms here?"

"The farms are not going to be created near the forests and hills, obviously," Meredith answers. "We're leaving that terrain alone. Like a forest preserve."

I point my thumb at the police officer, who has sat down again and broken out what appears to be a training manual.

"And is he here all the time?" I ask.

Meredith shakes her head. "No…I assigned him yesterday, after Katniss told me about the terrorists. Until yesterday, we just relied on keys and a lock."

She shoots me a determined look. "I'm taking care of Katniss, too."

We climb back into the car. "You told me that you and Katniss are friends," I say. "How did that happen?"

"Are we on or off the record," Meredith says. The sun is getting higher now, and she puts on a pair of sunglasses.

"I actually can't interview you for the paper," I say. "It could be a conflict of interest."

She smiles. "So there won't be a story about me?"

"Well, I can't write it…but I'll arrange for one of my colleagues to interview you later."

Meredith laughs. "All right," she says. "No story by my fair man."

"Not today," I answer. "But how did you and Katniss become friends?"

"We met a day or two after I was assigned here," she says. "I went over to Peeta's bakery to buy some bread and introduce myself, and she was there, helping him."

"With the customers?" I ask.

"No…she's too private. She was in back, doing inventory. But Peeta took me back and introduced me. She immediately saw my resemblance to Rue. When I told her that Rue and I were cousins, she asked about our family, and if we were still getting a portion of her 74th Hunger Games winnings."

"Are you? Your family, I mean."

Long silence. Her face becomes tight. There's something going on there, I think. "They were until the war started," she says. "After that, I don't know. I hope so." There is a silence. She's hiding something, I think.

Meredith resumes her tale. "Anyway, we became friends after that. I asked her if there was anything she needed from me, as Business Administrator of the District, and she didn't say anything. But Peeta blurted out that Katniss was always coming back scratched up from having to crawl under that fence to go hunting every day, so I put through the order for the gate the next day."

"How did she take that?"

"Well, she was very grateful, of course. I think she didn't want to be in a situation where she felt she owed something to the government. I've told her many times that if she needs something, all she has to do is ask."

"What has she asked for?"

"Mostly protection from you guys," Meredith says, grinning at me. "She doesn't want to be interviewed, so they passed the Katniss Ordinances at a Town Meeting. And we ignore the fact that every time she goes hunting, she breaks her parole. She's first to get mail and packages on the postal route, and when she goes to the store, she doesn't have to stand on line at the cash register. And you saw what happened last night at the Town Meeting."

"Yeah…as soon as Peeta spoke, the whole District supported him."

"That happens to both of them. It's funny, if Peeta or Katniss were to run against Ron Davis for Mayor, they'd win. Davis knows that. But they don't want to be in the public eye again. That's why Davis pushes so hard…he's competing against a pair of legends, and they don't have to lift a finger to say anything."

"This place is more complicated than the Capitol," Archer says, from behind us. "I thought those guys liked to play games, but they have nothing over this District."

For some reason, Sam has been silent during this exchange. I lean up to him. "What's your side of the story? Last night, the residents were pretty hard on you."

"Hey, we're just trying to do a fantastic job here to rebuild this District," he says. "And my guys are working their asses off."

"Yeah, but they say you're moving too slowly and your workers get out of control."

Sam stares out of the jeep and into the distance, and then looks back at us. "Look, I could probably get this job done faster if I cut a lot of safety corners. Obviously, I can't, because that would just create buildings that fall down. I could also get this job done faster if I bring in even more workers from other Districts and more supplies. But if I do that, then I have to build even more modular buildings to house and feed them, and it would be like running in place. I have put in requests for more of both, and I'm willing to take that chance. But it would still be mostly running in place. My assignment from the Capitol and the Department of Reconstruction is to make District 12 the model district for successful rebuilding."

"What about the behavior issues," I ask.

"These guys and girls work 12-hour days," he says. "They're getting paid well for the first time in their lives, and even with allotments going to their families, they have plenty of money, and not many places to spend it here. When they come off-shift, they like to blow off steam."

"That incident with the guy and girl getting caught under Middlebrook's house is not unique," Meredith says, her voice sounding grudging.

"When we catch these guys acting out, we fire them and they go to court," Sam says. "After they pay their fine, they're on the next train back to the Capitol. There are plenty of people who want these jobs. And most of the troublemakers are workers who aren't going to stay here when the jobs are done," he adds.

"They're staying here?"

"The residential district being built is four times the actual registered population of District 12," Meredith says. "A lot of these workers are going to stay on after the jobs are done, and take new ones, either on the farms or in the factory, or in the service economy. Their families will come out and join them. We think that by the end of the project, this District will be back up to a population of five or six thousand, counting immigrants. A number of them are from District 13, where they're tired of the regimented life there."

She stops the car near the top of a hill. We debark and look down on a vast construction site…curving roads that go into cul-de-sacs, sidewalks, wood-and-concrete frames surrounded by workers and vehicles. Sam describes the project, one of the new residential areas, which is within walking distance of the factory site and a short distance from the downtown shopping area he is building. At the core of the new neighborhood is a park, complete with playgrounds. The houses will all be multi-bedroom dwellings, with plenty of lawn space, trees, solar panels, and all the latest technology, even the shower systems they have in the Capitol. Each family will own its own house and land, free and clear.

"This used to be the Seam," he says. He points at a strip of ruined buildings beyond the site. "Over there is Katniss's old house and those of her neighbors. Her house is also being preserved as a 'stabilized ruin.'"

"She didn't want it torn down," Meredith says. "She actually didn't want any of the ruins torn down, but I convinced her to let most of them get knocked down." Archer fires off some photographs.

"I'd like to talk to the workers and residents who are moving in to the houses," I say. "Do the residents get any say in the construction of their homes?"

"They were allowed to pick their sites, and given opportunities to go over the design of their homes with the architects and construction managers," Sam says. "It's going to look a little mass-produced at first, but once they move in and start personalizing their homes, they'll be individualized."

We return to the car, and all hop in. "I'm just so excited to be a part of this," Sam says. "It's like building a whole new world. I just wish everybody would believe me when I tell them we're trying to do our best. I just can't do it fast enough."

"They were bombed to hell," I say. "It makes them very nervous when a guy from the government says, 'I'm here to help.'"

The car bounces off along the road, and over potholes. "Why are these roads so bad," I ask Sam.

"I have heavy-duty vehicles going over them in all kinds of weather," he says. "We slapped these roads together really quickly, and they're falling apart just as quickly. One of the last things we'll do before we're done is put down roads that can last. We just don't have the time right now."

Meredith drives the car through the unfinished downtown. "The plan here is to create a Victorian-style shopping area," Sam says. "We built Peeta's bakery first, pretty much as a beta site."

"What's a beta site," Archer asks.

"It's a test bed for all the other designs," Sam says. "It's the model for the other stores." He points out a number of sites that are un-built beyond foundations. "Over there we're going to have an indoor market, with small vendors, fresh foods, crafts, clothing, and stuff like that. Guess what it's called?"

I shrug my shoulders. Sam grins. "The Hob."

"That should mean something," I say.

"The Hob was the illegal black market before the war," Meredith says. "It was originally a coal warehouse, and it was destroyed by the Peacekeepers before the rebellion, when the government was cracking down on this District. It will honor its predecessor. It'll be good for the economy."

"And tourism," Sam says. Meredith gives Sam a glare.

"You're not encouraging tourists," I gasp. "I thought you were protecting Katniss."

"We are protecting Katniss," Meredith says. "Tourism is a big political issue in this District. Some people want to encourage it over the long term, and some people are flat against it."

"Because the tourists that would come here…" I say

"Would be like the guys I used to take in my Hunger Games arena tours," Archer finishes. "Thrill-seekers who want to see Katniss Everdeen."

"And I'm not in favor of people sticking their cameras in Katniss's window and invading her privacy," Meredith says. "That's one of the few things the Commissioner and I agree on."

"But I think that in the long run, tourism in this District would be good," Sam says. "Camping, hiking, hunting, wildlife, craft fairs, would buck up the economy and give people entertainment and activities to replace the Hunger Games." His voice cracks a little, breaking from his peppy demeanor. "I lost a few pals in the Hunger Games myself. Including a girlfriend when I was a kid. We need something better for entertainment."

It's a division that the residents of District 12 will have to sort out for themselves, I think.

Meredith stops the car by a vast meadow, and she debarks. We follow her. "This is another historic site," she says. "This is the Meadow."

There's nothing unusual about it…just a meadow covered with grass. Beyond it is the barbed-wire fence that delineates the District. Meredith explains. "After the war, they dug this area up and buried the remains of District 12's dead here. Most of the remains were burned beyond recognition, and virtually no effort was made to identify anybody."

The Meadow is covered with late-season flowers, and the autumn wind moves the grass. "The plan is to build a memorial here, of course," Meredith says.

Archer whips out his camera and starts taking photographs.

"We're going to work with the residents and some artists from District 1 to develop the memorial," Sam says. "The President wants to come here for the ceremony."

"But Katniss doesn't want her around."

"So she's not coming," I say.

"That's another thing we have to work on," Meredith says. We troop back to the car. "At least I won't be here to deal with it," she adds.

"You're not staying here," I say.

"Davis doesn't want me around. I don't know what I'm going to do in five months. Where I'm going to go."

I grab her by the shoulders and face her. "We need to talk about that," I say. I glance back at Sam and Archer, who are trying to ignore our emotional moment. "But not now."

We climb back into the car and drive off. "This is really a small District, compared to Districts 7 and 2," I say.

"Once the major work is all done, we'll move out the fences and add parkland," Sam says. "We just don't want wild animals and intruders walking into the District's streets."

"Speaking of intruders," I say, "Has anyone heard anything new about the terrorists?"

"No," Meredith says. "They've disappeared. I got a warning from the Capitol this morning to be on the alert for them, and passed it on to Chief Barnes. But nothing. Maybe no news is good news."

"Well, I have some good news," I say. "We're running a story in today's paper that says a genius named Beetee out in District 3 is making some kind of energy breakthrough that could render fossil fuels obsolete."

Sam whistles. Meredith looks amazed. "Is this true? If that happens, that will change everything. Once we get the residents out of the mines, I think people will be a lot happier."

We zoom past a bunch of mine pitheads and entrances. A group of miners stands in front of one pithead, where grubby miners are getting coffee and sandwiches from a mobile canteen truck. Among the miners is Ron Davis himself, chomping on his sandwich, looking filthy in his overalls. He ignores us.

"He stays connected with his residents," Meredith says.

We bounce over the rutted roads and into the ruins of the town center, where Meredith stops the car again. "We've already been here," I say.

Meredith points out some of the wreckage. "That's where they did the Hunger Games reapings, and over there was the Hall of Justice," she says. "And that was Mayor Undersee's house. His whole family and their two servants were killed in the bombing. Their remains are in the Meadow."

"And this whole area will be left as it is, untouched," I say.

"Fenced off, with historic markers," Meredith says. "The plan is to make digital images from shots from Hunger Games reapings to provide photos of the buildings for the plaques." She shakes her head. "Otherwise there are virtually no existing photographs of the District."

"Nobody could afford a camera," I say. "What about in the Capitol records?"

Meredith shakes her head. "Nobody has had the time to look. That's a long-term project."

I could ask my father if the Peacekeepers kept photographs of their work, but I don't think they want shots of floggings and beatings. And I know that if I ask him, he'll just give me his usual stony silence. I dig at the dirt. Bits of burnt wood come up under my shoes.

"And when the final work is finished," Sam adds, "We remove all the modular buildings. They'll get re-used in other projects. Then we place the two memorials. And then we're done. Those of us who don't stay here will go on to other jobs in other districts."

He gazes around the ruins. "I just hope everybody remembers why this happened and what it was all for. I think everybody here just wants to forget us…the war, and everything that happened. Nobody's going to care or remember what we did here. They just complain, no matter what I do. It really gets me depressed."

It's an odd statement from the normally cheery and upbeat man. But the strain of last night's cross-examination by the residents seems to be affecting the construction manager.

Archer takes a shot of Sam staring out at the ruins. Meredith and I look at each other. It stirs a memory that we both share.

"I think they'll remember," I say. "In fact, I'm certain of it."

Sam turns back to us. "How can you be so sure?"

I look at Meredith. "I'll have to tell this Katniss tonight anyway, I guess. Do you want to or should I?"

Meredith sighs. "You will have to tell it tonight, and you probably remember it better. So why not do it now, and get yourself prepped?"

"I get to hear a war story?" Archer asks. "At last!"

"Yeah," I say. "A war story. Before the fighting."

It is the second week of our training, and all the officer cadets are charging through a "confidence course," under the tutelage of gray-clad instructors from District 13. They stand by the route, yelling imprecations at us about our abilities.

The skies are overcast from a recent rainstorm, and we recruits, also wearing gray uniforms, are covered in mud from the various obstacles. We are bedraggled-looking lot, filthy from crawling under barbed wire and across streams. Some of us are struggling to make it through the route. We all carry rifles with bayonets attached. Some of us are having little trouble with the course. Others are having great difficulty.

We charge up from under another barbed-wire obstacle and face a row of huge punching bags, dangling from ropes, which we are to stab with our bayonets. It's the last target on the course, for some reason.

One of the recruits is trapped under the wire. Kae Lyn and Mark Salmon crawl back to help the trapped cadet, who is screaming in frustration. I charge out of the barbed wire, next to another recruit, and stab the punching bag. Right in the gut. I run past, and shout out my name as I cross the finish line. Several instructors are standing there, including a short man with a black moustache, carrying a short stick, watching us. Unlike the others, he wears a camouflage battle uniform and a green beret.

The cadet next to me, an undernourished boy named Cooper, stabs the bag at its bottom, and then collapses onto the ground.

Sgt. Allen, an immense male black instructor from District 13, with a shaved head and huge hands, storms over to the cadet. "What's the point of hitting him there, recruit? You're trying to take his life, not his voice! Start over, you idiot!"

More recruits cross the finish line, including Meredith, who gives me a fist bump of victory as she dashes past. Other recruits come trickling in. Cooper rolls over on his back, in tears.

"What's the matter," Allen sneers. "Too hard for you?"

Cooper crawls to his feet, drenched with mud, a picture of misery. He struggles to snap to attention. "Sir!" He shouts. "This recruit requests permission to speak freely!"

Allen nods. "Go ahead."

"Sir, you can take this training and shove it up your ass! I want to go home to District 8!"

"Well, you're not going anywhere," the short man with the moustache shouts. "What do you think this is, a spelling bee?" The short man strides over to Cooper. "This is a game that you can just quit when you want?"

Cooper tries to splutter an answer, but the man waves his stick, and Cooper shuts up.

"That's Colonel Lewis," Meredith whispers to me. I nod. He's the boss of the training center, and we haven't met him yet. He's only arrived a day or so ago.

"He's supposed to be forming a special parachute-commando unit," I whisper back.

"And you can all shut up back there," Allen hollers at us.

Lewis strides away from Cooper and stares at the course. Five recruits are still struggling through it, two trapped on the high fence, three in the barbed wire. Kae Lyn and Salmon help their recalcitrant recruit out of the wire.

Allen yells to Lewis, but at us, "How about we have all of these guys go through the course again? They can encourage each other!"

Lewis waves his stick at Allen, and the sergeant shuts up. Lewis strides up to us, and faces us. "I want to talk to them for a moment, Sergeant. Tell that idiot to join his cronies."

"At your pleasure, Colonel," Allen says, stepping back. He nods at Cooper, and the tearful recruit dashes over to the crowd of recruits and sits down, trying to look inconspicuous.

Lewis glances back. "Get those people up here. I want them to hear this." Lewis strides up to us, head down, tapping his stick into his right hand behind him, looking thoughtful. With nobody ordering us around, the various officer trainees find somewhere to sit down on the ground. Some disconnect and sheathe their bayonets. I slouch down next to Meredith. We are not lovers yet, but we are clearly "into each other," as Kae Lyn and others like to say.

Kae Lyn looks at us with an amused grin. Jennifer laughs. Cornbread sits to Meredith's left, intent on Lewis. Salmon peers seriously at the recruit he helped, a skinny boy named Shepard.

The other recruits that have been struggling through the course join us and flop down on the ground before the colonel.

"I haven't had a chance to meet you yet," Lewis says. "So I'll take care of that now. I am Colonel Augustus Lewis. Some of you may have heard of me. I used to train Peacekeepers."

My father hasn't mentioned his name. But then, my father doesn't talk about being a Peacekeeper. But some of the recruits nod their heads or mumble in the affirmative.

"I taught combat tactics and military history, two subjects most of my trainees didn't care too much about," he says. "And I was part of the underground resistance against the government, something that I very much cared about. Now I'm training you people to become officers in the rebel army, which you and I will lead to defeat the Capitol. But if we are going to lead that army, we must lead by example, and that means all of you have to be able to complete a confidence course without breaking into tears."

Cooper hangs his head, in shame.

"You break down now, what are you going to do when you're in a battle and people are being killed and maimed around you?" Lewis asks. His voice is calm, firm, and low-key. "Your men and women will look to you to keep them calm, focused, and victorious. If you people can't lead by example, if you crack up, we will lose the war."

One of the instructors in gray says, "Colonel, sir, I did recommend that we do the training back in District 13, with our simulators, which are more realistic…"

Lewis waves his baton. "Bellamy, are we going to fight battles in the simulator or in the field?"

The instructor, obviously Bellamy, blanches. "Well…in the field, sir."

"Fine, Bellamy. Then we'll train in the field. You fight like you train."

Bellamy steps back. Lewis steps toward us. "I don't think you people realize what is at stake here. This is a war unlike any that have been fought in history. And I know about military history. I've taught it for a decade, to Peacekeepers who weren't listening. So I'm going to teach it to you, since you are listening."

He holds up his stick. "This is a swagger stick," Lewis says. "It's several hundred years old. It's been in my family for centuries."

The recruits react with whistles of surprise and amazement. There are virtually no artifacts of previous civilizations in the lives of most citizens of Panem. "One of my ancestors was issued this swagger stick when he was commissioned into a regiment called the 48th Highlanders, hundreds of years ago, in a conflict called the First World War. He was fighting against an aggressive empire named Germany, which had invaded peaceful countries in a continent called Europe, and destroyed their cities."

I remember vaguely a story about a country named Germany invading another country named Belgium, but I don't know what the second empire is. Maybe I should read military history, I think.

"He served in the 48th Highlanders, part of the 3rd Brigade of the 1st Canadian Division," Lewis continues. "He led troops in a heroic and successful attack at a place called Vimy Ridge, against the Germans, and earned a medal.

"He gave the swagger stick to his son, who served in the Royal Canadian Regiment in another war 20 years later, called the Second World War. As it happens, this war was also to stop German aggression. Only these Germans didn't just invade neutral countries, they butchered millions of people in those countries. He fought in Sicily, Italy, and the Netherlands, also in the 1st Canadian Division, and also earned a medal."

I wonder what Lewis is talking about. Where are these places? What is the Royal Canadian Regiment? What is Europe? What is Germany?

Lewis looks at us with determined eyes. "A swagger stick is carried by officers kind of as a badge of rank," Lewis says. "You used it to point out where your men should go. This one was handed down in my family, all the way to me. I carry it with me, to remember my family history, and to remember why they fought."

We are quiet as Lewis speaks. No dramatics. No fire. Just firmness. "My family fought in several wars for a country called Canada." He points to the north. "Over there."

He smiles slightly. "Long before that battle at Vimy Ridge, some of my ancestors fought to prevent Americans from invading Canada, at Queenston Heights and Lundy's Lane. And they won. They fought tyrannies in two World Wars and Korea. They served as peacekeepers – real peacekeepers, not the sadistic idiots who flog starving people for stealing a crust of bread in the Districts – to prevent wars and hold tyrants back after that. Now we are fighting what may be one of the worst tyrannies in human history. This is a tyranny that tears out people's tongues, that starves its citizens, and forces children aged 12 to 18 to fight to the death in an arena for sport.

"Some of you people understand how evil and important this war is. But some of you seem to think this is a game or an adventure of some kind. A spin-off of the Hunger Games.

"Well, it isn't the Hunger Games. It's worse. In the Hunger Games, only 23 people die. But if we lose this war, the Capitol and the tyrants who rule it will make our world worse than ever. And that will affect each of you personally." He walks up and down from left to right. "Each one of you who survives will probably have his tongue torn out. That's right. Each and every one of you." He points at a few recruits in the crowd, and continues. "You, you, or even you." He points directly at Meredith. She gulps and her face flushes.

"The tyranny will continue forever. Thousands of people will die. Your whole families will be slaughtered, your homes razed. You will all be forgotten, and sadists like Coriolanus Snow will be regarded as heroes. And the sadistic, wealthy, privileged fat bastards in the Capitol will go on holding food orgies and Hunger Games forever. This is our only chance to stop them. It's our only chance to stop them from starving our families, keeping us in poverty, and taking our children away by lottery every goddamn year to slaughter. We can end all that, you and me.

"What we are doing is making history. What we are doing, people will remember. What we are doing is more important than anything that has been done on this continent in more than a century. I want you to make history and be remembered, in the same way that my swagger stick helps me remember Queenston Heights, Lundy's Lane, Vimy Ridge, Ortona, and the Liri Valley. I want you people to write the pages in the history book that nobody will ever forget: the chapter about the men and women who brought Coriolanus Snow and the Capitol's dictatorship down, ended the Hunger Games, and freed our people.

"And you're only going to be able to do that if you complete your training, focus on your jobs in spite of everything, and win this war. We have to win, and we have to lead that victory." He pauses. "Any questions?"

Someone raises his hand. Lewis points at the questioner with his swagger stick. "Go," Lewis says.

"Sir, what are Queenston Heights, Lundy's Lane, Vimy Ridge, Ortona, and the Liri Valley?" asks a quavering voice. Cornbread laughs nervously.

Lewis stares at the crowd of recruits, his features working into fury. "Doesn't anybody here have a clue about what I'm saying?" he gasps. "Anyone?"

Impulsively, I rise to my feet. "I think I know what you mean, sir. About us being remembered and victorious. I think I can explain it."

Lewis folds his hands. Overhead, I hear a distant rumble of thunder. I walk up near him and face the bedraggled trainees. "May I, sir," I say to Lewis.

Lewis nods, puzzled.

I look at the men and women. They are covered in mud and filth. Some of them are still undernourished from years of starvation in their Districts, but are being fattened up by Slim's fresh meat from District 10. They are a mixed bunch, some my age, some younger, all looking fearful and hopeful at the same time. I see Jennifer, Kae Lyn, Mark Salmon, Cornbread, Cooper, Shepard, all looking at me. Most are puzzled. Meredith, however, has a knowing expression.

"Some of you guys know that Meredith and I have been spending our free time reading plays by William Shakespeare to each other."

There is a gaggle of laughter from the recruits. But we're not the only budding romance in the training class.

"Hundreds of years ago, Shakespeare wrote a play about a small army going to war to fight an enemy that outnumbered them something like seven-to-one. The good guys were led by King Henry V, and they were the small army. They were about to be attacked by the bad guys and their huge army, and the good guys were afraid they'd be defeated. So King Henry made a speech to his men right before the big battle. One of his top aides, named Westmoreland, wished that some of the men back home were with them that day, which was something called St. Crispin's Day."

The recruits look at me, puzzled. I shrug my shoulders. "I don't know what St. Crispin's Day is, either." I can feel Lewis staring at me, intrigued.

"Anyway, here's the speech."

I say, from memory:

"What's he that wishes so?

My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;

If we are mark'd to die, we are enow

To do our country loss; and if to live,

The fewer men, the greater share of honour.

God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.

By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,

Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;

It yearns me not if men my garments wear;

Such outward things dwell not in my desires.

But if it be a sin to covet honor,

I am the most offending soul alive.

No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.

God's peace! I would not lose so great an honor

As one man more methinks would share from me

For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,

Let him depart; his passport shall be made,

And crowns for convoy put into his purse;

We would not die in that man's company

That fears his fellowship to die with us.

This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,

Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,

And rouse him at the name of Crispian.

He that shall live this day, and see old age,

Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,

And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,

And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'

Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,

But he'll remember, with advantages,

What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,

Familiar in his mouth as household words –

Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,

Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-

Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.

This story shall the good man teach his son;

And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,

From this day to the ending of the world,

But we in it shall be remembered –

We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me

Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,

This day shall gentle his condition;

And gentlemen in England now-a-bed

Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,

And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks

That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day."

Nobody says a word. Meredith smiles at me. I showed her the speech three nights ago, and she was excited by it, saying I had to read it to the rest of the recruits. I had told her I would do it at the proper time. Kae Lyn is trying to keep from laughing. Cornbread looks determined. Cooper looks stunned. Salmon looks serious. Jennifer, for once, is not about to make a loud, brassy joke.

The rest of the recruits are staring at me in amazement…and comprehension.

Lewis strides over to me, arms folded in front of him. I hear another distant crack of thunder. "What's your name, recruit?" he asks me, his voice down a few decibels.

"Charlie Allbright, sir." I snap to attention.

"Where you from, Allbright ?"

"District 2, sir."

"District 2. Were you a Career Tribute, a miner, or a Peacekeeper before the rebellion?"

"None of the above, sir. I was a newspaper editor."

Lewis laughs. "A newspaper editor. So you memorized that speech was what you did instead of learning how to throw knives or break rocks or crack skulls?"

"Yes, sir."

"You're that guy who was assigned here by Plutarch Heavensbee to be a combat correspondent as well as an officer, right?"

"Yes, sir. My photographer is with me, too."

"Point him out," Lewis says.

I point at Kae Lyn. "Kae Lyn Harrington, sir."

"Pop tall, recruit," Lewis says, pointing his swagger stick at Kae Lyn. She snaps to attention.

Lewis looks me up and down. "Can you drive a car?"

The question seems bizarre. "No, sir," I say.

"Good," Lewis says. He turns back to Kae Lyn. "How about you? Can you drive a car?"

Kae Lyn goggles at the question. "No, sir."

"Good. If either of you two could drive a car, I'd have to assign you to one of the armored infantry units. But because you can't drive…" He puts out his right hand. "Welcome to the 1st Special Service Force, son. You're going to be a commando." He shakes my hand and walks over to Kae Lyn, and shakes her hand. "So are you, recruit. I can't break up Mr. Heavensbee's press team. You can sit down."

Kae Lyn sits. Lewis strides back to the center, his swagger stick behind him, and faces me again. "I know that speech, too. Only I never memorized it like you did. I also know what battle that was. Agincourt, in 1415. The English defeated the French. The French did indeed outnumber the English by a huge amount, and the English crushed them." He glances up at the storm-laden sky and down at the mud. "Under similar weather conditions." He grins at me. "From now on, your name is 'Shakespeare,' recruit." He nods at the other trainees. "You can rejoin your buddies now."

I dash back to my space next to Meredith. She grabs my hand and squeezes it.

Lewis stares down at Cooper. "You still want to quit, son?"

Cooper stares back at Lewis. Tears are streaming down his cheeks. He yells, "No, sir!"

Lewis smiles. "That's what I like to hear." He looks at Allen and Bellamy. "Sergeant Allen, I think you were about to have these recruits run the confidence course again."

"Yes, sir," Allen shouts.

"Then I suggest you do so," Lewis says. "I'll join them. Show them how it's done."

"Yes, sir," Allen shouts again. He turns on us. "All right, recruits, on your feet, we're doing this again!" We climb out of the mud and get ready to jog to the beginning of the course and do it over again.

Bellamy pipes up, "Um, sir, it looks like there's going to be some heavy rain…are you sure you want to do this right now?"

Lewis smiles at Bellamy. "Well, Bellamy, can you guarantee us that we're only going to fight battles when the sun is shining and the ground is dry?"

Bellamy twists his face and gulps. "Umm…no, sir. I can't."

"Then let's get on with it," Lewis says. He turns back to me and sees me standing next to Meredith, our hands entwined. "You two are involved?" he asks.

"We're…we're going that way, I think," Meredith says, looking at me nervously.

"I think so, too," I say, looking back at her, trying to smile. She smiles back shyly.

Lewis nods. "That's fine." He raises his swagger stick and points it at us. "But there's not going to be any fucking in this training camp. I'm not sending cowards home, and I'm not sending families home, either. Nobody here is being issued any kind of birth control, because it doesn't always work. I'm promoting abstinence. Nobody is leaving here pregnant or with some damn disease. And you two people are officer trainees first. If you wind up in the same unit, you," he points at me, "might have to order her," he points at Meredith, "to do something that could lead to her death, but win the war. Winning the war comes first. Clear?"

Meredith squeezes my hand. For the first time, it hits me that I might be in just that situation. I don't know if I could do that. I just nod my head.

Lewis flicks his eyes at us, going back and forth. "After we win the war, you can have all the romance you want. I catch you two together with your pants off, you're out of here. Separately. Clear?"

"Yes, sir," we both say, almost simultaneously.

"Right." He prepares to sprint off, then turns back to us for a moment, and says, "But you do look good together." Then he thunders off with the rest of the recruits.

Meredith and I look at each other. "What do you think?" I ask her.

"I'd like to be in the same unit as you," she says, "But he has a point."

"We'll worry about that later," I say. We run off to join the other recruits.

And now Archer and Sam Horn are staring at me, and Meredith is smiling. "That's pretty much how I remember it," she says.

"You memorized that speech?" Archer asks. "How the hell did you do that?"

"It was one of the things that motivated me to join the rebellion," I say.

"Who are Warwick…and Gloucester…and Bedford…and Exeter?" Sam asks. "I got a worker named Bedford. She's a plumber."

"They were Henry V's top aides," I say. "They fought in the battle." I dig at the ground, self-conscious. "Any way, the point was, I was telling the guys that if we won the war, we would be remembered for what we did."

"I never heard of the First Special Service Force," Sam says.

"We were better known as the Black Devils," I say.

"I never heard of them, either," he says.

Meredith looks away from us, and I look into the distance, too. "There aren't too many of us left," I say.

"The only way people are going to remember the Black Devils is if you write about them," Archer says.

I whirl on him. "Not you, too," I say.

He smiles slightly. "Hey, you're going to have to tell it. Why not write it?"

I give Meredith a look. "What?" she asks.

"What do you think?" I ask her.

"I want to know what happened at the bridge, too," she says.

"I never told you?" I say.

Meredith folds her arms together. "No. All I know is that you and your troops were mad because it took us nine days to get to you."

"That wasn't your fault," I say. "But I'd like to know that myself."

"This is going to be one interesting dinner," Archer says.

"Yeah, and I have to start preparing for it, and I have to interview some of the workers. Then I need to find a grocery store," I say. I turn to Sam Horn, who looks puzzled beneath his enormous beard. "Where can I get supplies for venison fajitas?"

"What are those?" Sam asks.

"Never mind," I say. "Let's go interview some construction workers."


	13. Chapter 13

**INTERVIEW WITH THE MOCKINGJAY – Chapter 13**

I spend the next couple of hours interviewing construction workers, talking with them about the jobs they are doing, while Archer snaps photographs. Meredith returns to work, and Sam Horn follows me around, obviously making sure his workers don't say anything untoward.

After that, Archer returns to our room to file his photographs, while I go to the District Commissary…the District's version of a supermarket, to purchase supplies for the Venison Fajitas. As usual, it's a few sections of a modular building.

When I emerge from the market, supplies in a paper bag, Meredith arrives in her car, having changed into a short black leather skirt, white frilly blouse, and matching black leather jacket. She's even wobbling – a bit unsteadily – on high heels. It's the first time I've ever seen her not wearing PT gear or a military uniform, and I am impressed.

She emerges from the car, and smiles. "You like?" she asks.

"Very much," I say, leaning forward to kiss her. "I thought you had to work."

"I'm not much of a cook, but I thought I could help a little."

I load the bags into the back of the car, and Meredith sets off, driving over the pitted roads, past storage yards of building supplies, through the blasted old downtown, and up the road I traveled yesterday to the Victor's Village.

Meredith drives past Katniss's house and pulls up to another house two blocks down. "This is my place," she says.

"How did you get a space in the Victor's Village?" I ask.

She shrugs. "Being the Business Administrator has its perks. There are only three occupied buildings in the Village, anyway. Mine, Katniss's, and Haymitch Abernathy's house."

"Commissioner Davis doesn't live up here?"

"He's one of the citizens, he says," Meredith says, as I pick up the bag from the car. "He lives in a room in one of the modular buildings, with the other citizens."

"A man of the people," I say. "Is it an act or is it real?"

"Both," Meredith says. We start walking towards Katniss's house. Geese in a yard of one of the houses emerge from behind it to honk at us. Meredith points her thumb at the house. "Haymitch lives there. He raises geese, and drinks heavily. He's been out of commission since your train arrived, as it had a special load of liquor for him."

"I need to interview him, too," I say.

"I thought that…you may be able to get him tomorrow. That reminds me, are you coming to the wedding tomorrow night?"

"Wedding? You mean Thom's wedding? I assumed that was a private party," I say.

"No, fair man. It's a District celebration, which makes it public. So you can come."

"Great, dark lady…I'll do a story about it."

We reach the front of Katniss's door, and Meredith knocks on it. It opens at once, revealing Katniss in gray buttoned shirt and jeans. Standing beneath her is that ghastly, ugly cat, who hisses at us.

Meredith and Katniss trade kisses on the cheeks in greeting, and Katniss looks down at her hideous cat. "Buttercup doesn't like anybody," she says.

"I see that," I say.

"His name is Buttercup," Katniss says. "He didn't like me until I told him that Prim had died. After that, he became very loyal."

We walk into the house, which is furnished with a mix of fairly new couches and carved wooden tables.

The walls, however, are all decorated with paintings. Most of them are paintings of Katniss. Up in a tree. Beating a shirt against stones in a stream. And lying unconscious in a pool of blood. All done in a variety of colors and a fairly realistic style.

Some of them are close-in studies…water dripping through cracks. A dry pond bed. A pair of hands digging in the soil.

Others are scenes from the 74th Hunger Games. I recognize them from the tapes…the Cornucopia. A female Tribute arranges knives in her jacket. A mutt snarls.

"I hated them at first," Katniss says. "Because I have nightmares about these moments. But they're beautifully done."

I nod my head. "I have nightmares, too," I say. "But they are beautifully done."

"Peeta did them," Katniss says. "He has more. One of our rooms is his studio."

"There's some talk about creating a gallery to display them," Meredith says. "But I don't know if that will happen."

"I'm not sure I want it to happen," Katniss snaps. "The kitchen is this way."

She takes us into the kitchen, and I unload my groceries. The kitchen is magnificently appointed, with all the latest Capitol technology. Katniss has already taken care of providing me with two-inch strips of venison, which spares me having to cut up a dead deer. I break out my supplies and get to work, spreading out peppers, onions, salt, and vegetable oil. I start combining the salt and peppers to make the seasoning.

Meredith and Katniss eye my preparations. "I wish I could help you, but I'm not much of a cook," Meredith says.

"Neither am I," Katniss says. "But I learned."

As I mix the seasoning, I ask, "Who does the cooking around here now?"

"Greasy Sae," Katniss and Meredith reply simultaneously.

I smile. "For both of you?"

"Yes," Katniss says.

"Well, actually, nowadays, she sends someone up to do it for us," Katniss says. "She started doing it when I came home."

"After the war," I say.

"Yes," Katniss says, with a stony finality, to indicate that she will not go further on that point.

I sprinkle the seasoning over the venison. "Where are the tortillas," I ask.

"Peeta's bringing them from the bakery," Katniss says. She studies the venison, as I prepare to refrigerate it for 30 minutes, setting a timer for 15 minutes. "That looks good," she says. "Where did you learn to cook?"

"I had no choice in the matter," I say. "When my mother died, I had to take over the cooking in my family."

"What happened," Katniss says.

I know I have to put everything on the line now. I'm beginning to think that I'm the one who will be interviewed, not her.

"Breast cancer," I say. "I was 16. My father couldn't even make coffee. We had some cookbooks in the school library, and I read them, front to back. Taught myself, the hard way. I made a lot of mistakes."

"How did your father react when your mother died?" Katniss asks.

"He curled up into a ball for weeks," I say. "It really devastated him. He didn't do anything, talk to anyone, or say what he was feeling. After a while, he came out of the ball. I had to take charge."

"That's like what happened to my mother," Katniss says.

She's opening up, I think. Not a lot. Just a little. I'll encourage it. "What happened?" I ask, trying to sound casual.

"Are you…"

"No, I just want to know," I say, wiping my hands on a towel.

Meredith and Katniss shoot each other a look. Meredith nods her head. Katniss nods back, perceptibly.

"My father was killed five years before I went into the Hunger Games," Katniss says. "He was…" she chokes, her voice tight. I lean back against the huge refrigerator.

"I'm not taking any notes," I say, trying to sound calm and reassuring.

"He was killed in a mine explosion. They happen – they used to happen – quite often. They never found his body."

"I had pals in the war who also got killed, and they never found their bodies," I say, nodding my head. "And I thought Meredith had been killed, too…"

"After my father died, Mayor Undersee gave me a medal for valor," Katniss says, tossing her signature braided hair back. "We got money for a month, but my mother was supposed to get a job. She didn't. She just sat, propped up in a chair, or huddled under the blankets on her bed. So I had to take over. Then the money ran out, and we were starving to death…" She stops and closes her eyes for a long moment. Then she opens them again.

"It was very hard," Katniss says, at last.

"Not as hard for me, I guess," I say. "We had money. We had the Peacekeeper pension, and my father had squirreled away some more money somehow…he didn't tell me where he got it…" My voice drains off.

The idea forms in my head.

"Katniss, did you ever hear of a Peacekeeper named Edison Allbright? He was stationed here for a while."

Katniss stares into me. "Yes, I do," she says. "I thought your name was familiar."

I feel my guts start to twist.

"He was the Head Peacekeeper before Cray. When my father was killed," Katniss says.

So he was stationed here. "Do you remember much about him?" I ask.

"Only that he had a harsh reputation. He was transferred out sometime after the mine explosion," Katniss says. "Why do you want to know from me about your father?"

"He never talked to me about his work," I say. "He would never open up about it. Before I came here, he asked me to tell you and Peeta that he hopes you will forgive him. But he didn't tell me what to forgive him for."

Katniss regards me stonily. "He sent my father to his death," she says, cold.

I hear Meredith exhale. "Do you know about this?" I ask her.

"I know from talking with the miners and from some of the records that when there were coal shortages in the Capitol, the Peacekeepers in this District would put pressure on to increase the output," Meredith says. "They would ignore a lot of safety rules and put miners on extra shifts. I had to deal with some of those issues when we had to increase the coal output this year."

"Are there any records of that particular incident?" I ask.

Meredith shakes her head. "Destroyed in the bombing," she says.

My father sent Katniss's father into the mines to die, I think. What the hell else did he do in this District?

"Can you tell me anything else about my father," I ask Katniss.

She shakes her head. "Not much. He used to pat kids on the head and give them candy. He didn't trade at the Hob, and I don't know how he was for discipline. I know he ignored me and my father going out beyond the fence to hunt…but that's it."

"Were the Head Peacekeepers who came after him better or worse," I ask, trying to find a baseline for comparison.

"The last two Head Peacekeepers were Cray and then Romulus Thread. Thread was a bastard. He enjoyed whipping people. He even had one of his own Peacekeepers turned into an Avox. Cray didn't whip people. He just paid starving girls to share his bed."

Katniss walks over to the gleaming tea machine and starts making cups of tea for everyone. "Girls used to beg for food near his house, and he'd take them in and give them food if they…you know…"

"I can guess the rest," I say. I wonder if my father did the same thing in District 12. Or any other District.

"So you didn't have to starve or worry about starving," Katniss says, as she passes out teacups. "You didn't have to worry about being put in the community home."

"No," I say.

"That's strange, because the Peacekeepers here in this District were poor and hungry all the time, too. They used to come in to the Hob to buy the game I killed in the woods." Katniss leans against her counter, sipping her tea.

She's testing me, I think. She's trying to determine my character and credentials. I'd better be honest with her. Besides, she's not going to write an article about this. "We had some money," I say. "My father was still working."

"My mother wasn't," Katniss says. "Well – she didn't. Did you take tesserae?"

I'm struck for a moment. "Yes, I did," I say. "I filled out the forms and took home the grains and oils."

"But you were never reaped," Katniss says.

I sip my tea. Meredith pulls up a chair, rapt. "No. I grew up in District 2. Every kid was training to be either a Peacekeeper or a Tribute," I say. "Even if they pulled my name, at least eight other guys, some of them younger than me, would have trampled me into the ground to volunteer. Every year, they'd pull a name, and every year, that kid would just stand aside as the volunteers charged forward."

Katniss eyes Meredith. "How about you? Since we're talking about the past."

"I never had to take tesserae," Meredith says. "We were doing better than most of the District 11 residents. I never got reaped, as you can see." She shrugs. "Nobody in my family got reaped. Except Rue."

Katniss nods. Her eyes are working over me, cold, fiery. Burning into me. The "Girl on Fire" from the 74th Hunger Games. I'm being given an examination.

"I didn't live with starvation," I say. "But I did see it. When I was a kid, I'd be going to school with my mother, and we'd find someone lying dead in the road. Then when I was an adult, I had to write obituaries and death notices for the District newspaper about people who had died of flu, exposure, pneumonia, heart attacks, or something like that. But we all knew it was a farce."

"I knew people who starved to death," Meredith says. "And I saw people get shot or hanged for stealing food. When I was Assistant Business Administrator in District 11, I'd have to do the paperwork on the families and the property of people who'd died, or been hanged."

Katniss looks down into her teacup. "I remember when I was on the train going to the 74th Hunger Games. They had rolls on the table, enough to feed my family for a week. Orange juice, which I'd only had once. And hot chocolate, which I'd never had until that moment. Now I have all this," she waves at her luxuriously appointed kitchen. "It doesn't make sense."

She looks back up at us. "How did you two meet?"

"That's a good story," I say. I turn to Meredith. "Should you tell it or should I?"

"You tell it," she says.

I re-tell Katniss the story of our first meeting, taking her right up to the conversation I did not overhear. As the tale ends, a smile draws across Katniss's face. She sips her tea, and eyes Meredith.

"So what did you and Kae Lyn talk about at that moment?" Katniss asks.

Meredith reddens.

"You still haven't told him?" Katniss looks almost amused.

"I'm…I'm waiting for the right moment," Meredith says.

Katniss actually laughs. The timer goes off. It's time to start heating two tablespoons of oil in a frying pan, so I can cook bell peppers and onions until they soften.

As I cook, the front door opens, and in comes Peeta. He enters the kitchen, and he kisses Katniss. On the lips, I notice. They are involved. One mystery partially solved, I think.

Peeta holds up a bag. "Fresh tortillas," he says. "How's it coming?"

"Fine," I say.

"Charlie's father was the Head Peacekeeper here before Cray," Katniss says to Peeta.

He reacts. "Really," he says. "I knew him a little bit."

"What was he like," I ask Peeta. "As a Head Peacekeeper."

"He's your father," Peeta answers. "Don't you know?"

"He never talked about his work, apparently," Katniss says.

Peeta removes his coat and hangs it up as he answers. "Well, I was a little boy at the time, but I remember him giving out candy to the kids. I don't think he was well-liked in the District, but most Head Peacekeepers weren't."

"He was Head Peacekeeper when my father was killed," Katniss says.

Peeta glances upward. He nods quickly. "Yes, he was. I'm pretty sure he was remembered as a hard guy."

"He asked me to ask the both of you to forgive him," I say. "I'd like to know for what." I scrape at the onions. "He never talked about his work. He just encouraged me to join the rebellion."

Peeta peers at the onions and peppers. "He must have felt guilty about something," he says. "Something real."

"Very real," Katniss says.

Peeta nods, and stumps off to change out of his baker's outfit. Buttercup the cat plods into the kitchen, hisses at me, and plods back out again.

I remove the venison strips from the fridge, and start cooking them in the pan. "We should be ready in about 15 minutes," I say.

"I'll set the table," Meredith offers. Katniss nods. Meredith goes. The doorbell rings, and Katniss goes to admit Archer. The photographer strolls in, for once not festooned with camera gear. Instead, he's carrying a fruit basket. "Thought you'd like it for an appetizer," he says to Katniss.

"Very thoughtful," Katniss says, taking it to the dining room table.

Archer pulls off his jacket, and joins me in the kitchen, studiously observing my cooking. "Not bad, boss. Smells good, at least," he says. "How's it going? Did I miss anything?"

"My father was the Head Peacekeeper here when Katniss's father was killed in a mine explosion," I say.

"Small world," Archer grunts. "But we can't print that. Anything for our story?"

"Not yet, but I think you'll get your fill of war stories tonight," I say, with a slight sigh.

"Great," Archer says, smacking me on the back. He strolls over to Peeta's paintings, and studies them intently. "These are from the 74th Hunger Games!" he says, with a voice of triumph.

"That's right," Peeta says quietly, having returned from his bedroom.

"That's Clove," Archer says. "The girl with the knives. And that's one of the mutts at the very end of the Games. That one looks like Glimmer. And that…that has to be your hands, digging for roots."

"You remember these games very well," Peeta says.

"I'm an expert on them," Archer says, with a sound of pride. "I used to take Capitol residents on tours of Hunger Games arenas and shoot photographs and video of them re-enacting scenes from their favorite Games. The 74th were very popular."

"Really," Katniss says, dryly.

"People would go there and place Mockingjay pins on the old Cornucopia," Archer says. "I see you did a painting of that, too."

"Yes," Peeta says.

"That's where you guys had that last stand against the mutts," Archer says. "And the battle with Cato. Incredible ending."

"Do you know what happened to Cato's body," Peeta asks Archer.

Archer tugs at his chin. "All the bodies of defeated Tributes were transported back to their Districts," he says. "I'm sure that was the same for your games."

The venison is cooking well. I can hear Meredith and Katniss talking quietly from the dining room. Suddenly I hear a burst of laughter. It isn't Meredith's. The laughter is followed by giggling and cackling. Meredith emerges from the dining room with a strange smile on her face. "Does anybody want wine with dinner?" she asks.

"I'll have some," I say. "What's so funny?"

Meredith pats my wrist. "Never you mind, fair man," she says, before swirling away to locate a bottle of wine. I shrug, and return to the fajitas.

Peeta watches me cook. "You know your stuff," he says.

"I was telling Katniss, I had to learn the hard way, after my mother died. What about you?"

"Well, there's a huge difference between cooking and baking," he says.

"How is the bakery doing," I ask.

"We're doing very well," he says. "We have a large captive audience. After the construction workers leave, I don't know what we'll do. But we'll be all right. We get four sets of Victor's payments, on top of whatever we take home from the bakery. And we don't have any real expenses."

He sounds quiet, weary, subdued, as he talks. I scrape at the pan. "Well, you have your own place, and you don't have much debt."

"No," he says.

"Nobody to support," I add. "Your family?"

"All killed in the bombing," Peeta says. "Nobody left."

The fajitas are nearly ready. I start putting the meat and vegetables into the bread.

"I'm sorry," I say. It's all I can think of.

"What's going to happen?" Peeta asks. "After you do this story, I mean."

"What do you mean," I ask.

"Well, you do this story, you write about Katniss and me, and what will happen to the District? And you?"

"I go back to the Capitol and my job," I say. "And my next assignment."

"What happens with you and Meredith?"

"That's something we have to work out," I say, cautiously.

"And me and Katniss?" Peeta asks, sounding conclusive.

"I hope the story will cool things down," I say. "People understand why you and Katniss did what you did. I guess you heard about the terrorist incidents."

"I heard," Peeta says. He sounds tired and flat. "Katniss was very upset last night. She thinks they'll come here for her. And if it isn't terrorists trying to kill us, it'll be tourists and something Haymitch calls 'obsessed fans,' all trying to harass us. I don't want that to happen to Katniss. I want her to be able to rebuild and enjoy life. She's been through so much."

"I don't want to hurt her, either," I say.

"But what if your story embarrasses her," Peeta says. "Or if people take it the wrong way. And they come here and make it worse."

He's got me there. "Look, I know more than most people that our actions have consequences. But my job is to tell the truth, not to make your lives miserable. That's what I said last night. That's absolutely true," I say.

"Yes, but what happens to us? You write your story, and go home."

I put the last of the vegetables into a tortilla. "Peeta, I don't even know what's going to happen in my life, let alone yours. Until yesterday, I thought the only woman I've ever really loved was lost forever. Now she's putting out the plates for our dinner. I can't predict the future. I can only tell you that I'm not trying to make your lives any worse than they have been."

"Just remember that we're not just the subjects of your story," he says. "We're living, breathing, people."

"I'll remember that," I say.

Peeta nods. He walks over to the dining room. "We're ready to eat," he announces.

I bring the fajitas to the table.

The fruit basket and the fajitas go over well. Katniss and Peeta do not drink the wine. They drink tea. I nip lightly at the wine. I do not want to lose any self-control. "This is the first time Meredith and I have sat down to a dinner together outside of a messhall or a battlefield," I say, trying to inject humor into the situation. "So I have to thank you for setting this up."

"You've had a dateless romance," Katniss says. She looks at Meredith. "What did you see in this man?"

Meredith blushes. "He showed up, looking all handsome, and then sounded literate and caring," she says. "I was very taken by that. And he stayed that way."

"But you two were not in the same unit," Katniss says. "Just the same training center. Why was that?"

"You're the story-teller," Meredith says to me. "Tell it."

"It seems like the necessary preamble to my war story," I say. "And it can be told over dinner."

All the trainees are in the gym in the training center, getting their assignments, on the last day of training. Several District 13 officers, sitting behind desks, are giving out assignments to the newly-hatched officers. We sit in folding chairs, and the District 13 guys, in their gray uniforms, sitting at little laptop computers, call us up, one at a time. Most of us go to infantry units. Some of us are assigned to Col. Lewis's 1st Special Service Force. The highly-skilled technicians from District 3 go to communications units, the transport workers from District 6 to logistics units and the armored infantry. District 13 is providing the hoverplane drivers.

There is little conversation in the gym, as we wait to hear our fates. Gus Lewis strides up and down behind the tables, looking thoughtful, smacking his swagger stick against his side. He has some say in the assignments, but not a lot – the gray-clad men and women from District 13 can overrule him. This is President Coin's war, not his.

By now Meredith and I are clearly a couple, despite Lewis's warnings. We sit next to each other, holding hands. Lewis knows we have not had a sexual encounter. Two couples that have broken his rule have been sent back to their Districts. He sees us holding hands, shakes his head, and ignores us.

"He's not happy," I say.

"We didn't break the rules," Meredith says. "He couldn't stop us from falling in love, fair man." She squeezes my hand.

Kae Lyn and I have very little tension. We both know our assignment. Mark Salmon walks back to us from the desk. "They assigned me to the First Special Service Force, too," he says to me, quietly.

"Congratulations," Meredith and I say simultaneously. He plops down in the chair next to us.

Kae Lyn returns from her desk. "No surprise," she says. "I'm with you, Charlie."

"Well, we knew that," I say. "So is Mark. And Jennifer. And Cornbread and Cooper."

"Meredith Jackson," Bellamy calls up from his desk. Meredith rises.

"Here I go," she says. She walks over to the desk alone.

"It'll be pretty interesting if we're all in the same unit," Kae Lyn says, sitting down next to Salmon.

"Yeah," I say.

I see Meredith from behind. She's talking earnestly with Bellamy. Then she thumps his desk with her fist, and starts shouting, "No, you can't! You can't split us up!"

I bounce up from my seat and join her at the desk. So does Gus Lewis. So does Kae Lyn.

"What is it," I ask.

"They're putting me in the armored infantry," Meredith shouts at me. "I told them I wanted to be with you!"

Bellamy stares into his laptop. "It says here you can drive a car," he says. "Is that true?"

"Yes, I know how to drive," Meredith shouts. "So what?"

Bellamy shakes his head. "Then we need you in the armored infantry. You're going to drive one of our armored fighting vehicles."

Lewis looks down at the computer. "Unfortunately, Shakespeare, the computer is right. We don't have enough people who can drive in this army. She's got to go into the armored infantry." He looks up at me. "I'm sorry. I have to split you up." He pauses. "Besides, I didn't think you could give Meredith an order that could send her to a death, and I'm convinced of it now. We have to win the war, and I don't want your love to be a factor in that."

I'm stunned. After 90 days of sitting every night in Meredith's room, reading plays, talking with her, running with her, training with her, I can't bear the thought of being split from her.

And I can tell, from Meredith's tears, neither can she.

Meredith holds up her hand. "In that case, I want to go back to District 11, and resign my commission."

Lewis smiles harshly. "Not going to happen, Meredith. Nobody quits. Especially not now. It's a revolution, in case you haven't heard."

"We're not letting any family members serve together," Bellamy says. "Or couples. What if they all get killed?"

I grab Meredith in my arms and she buries her face in my right shoulder. Most of my pals, Kae Lyn, Jennifer, Salmon, Cornbread, are all near us. Meredith is in tears. "Listen to me," I say to her. "He's right. I can't order you to do something that could lead to your death, and you couldn't do the same to me. So we can't serve together."

"But what if you get killed?"

"That's a chance we have to take," I say, tearing up myself. "What if you get killed? What if we both get killed? It could happen."

She pulls her head out of my shoulder, and I grip her wrists.

"But what if I never see you again?" she says, in a weak voice.

"I will find you," I say, trying to sound firm. "I will do everything I can to find you. And after the war, we will be together. No matter what happens. I'll wait for you."

Meredith smiles. "If I fall behind, wait for me," she answers. Then she throws her arms around me. After a long hug, she regains her composure and faces Bellamy and Lewis. "Armored infantry, then," she says in a firm voice.

Bellamy punches buttons on his computer keyboard. "You're all set," he says.

"You'll do fine," Lewis says. He smiles again, this time a little warmer. "Probably safer in that AFV than jumping out of a hoverplane, anyway." He stands up. "I don't want any 'Sullivan Brothers' in this army."

We stare at him uncomprehendingly. Lewis rolls his eyes. "Back in the Second World War, there was a family of five brothers named Sullivan, from a town in the United States, called Waterloo, Iowa." He pauses. "That's District 9, nowadays. They all joined their Navy together, and insisted on all serving together on the same ship. They were all killed when it was sunk. It was a well-known tragedy at the time.

"This war is going to be painful enough," Lewis adds. "I'm not going to make it worse."

We stare at the boss, understanding.

"Any questions?" he asks.

None.

"Let's get on with it, then," he says. He smacks his swagger stick against his hip and walks off.

Bellamy finishes up Meredith's assignment. "You're all set, Lieutenant Jackson. You leave tomorrow morning." He looks up at us. "Sorry I have to break you two up. You look good together."

Archer swallows his food. "A lot of people say that when they see you," he says, pointing his fork at Meredith and I. "I've been noticing that."

"It's an interesting running gag," I say.

"You've never met each other's families," Peeta says.

"No," Meredith says. She digs at her food.

"I guess that's next," I say. Meredith looks at me uneasily. "What?" I ask.

"Later," she says.

"We have fresh pie and ice cream for dessert," Peeta says, rising from his chair.

"I'm sure the pie comes from your bakery," I say.

Peeta smiles shyly. "We have a terrific grade of pie," he says.

He's right about the pie.

After dinner, we move to the living room, past Peeta's paintings. I find myself drawn to them. I stare at the painting of Clove arranging the knives in her jacket. It's a dazzling array of weaponry. I have seen girls back in District 2 practicing the arts of killing on the very same knives, all the way back to my childhood.

"Did you know Clove at all?" Katniss asks, pointing at the painting.

I gaze at the artwork. Did I ever interview her? Probably not. District 2 was filled with girls like her – harsh, cold, brutal, pitiless killers. Proud to go off to the Hunger Games. Coming back in triumph or coming back in a pine box. I would not have seen her after her reaping, except on TV.

"She was rated a 10," Archer pipes up, "and had 5-1 odds. I thought she was mentally off-balance."

"That's what she was rated," Katniss says. "I've had nightmares about her. In the dream, she stabs me in the face, then turns into a mutt, and licks me in the face, to make my pain worse."

"She can't hurt you any more," I say.

"Thresh killed her," Katniss says. "He told me he did it for Rue."

"He was a good guy," Meredith says. "He worked in the orchards. Something of a loner."

We move into the living room, which is furnished with modern-looking black sofas and chairs. Katniss and Peeta crumple into a massive recliner, next to each other. I notice that they have no television.

I take a seat on a sofa facing Peeta and Katniss.

"Did you know Thresh's family?" Peeta asks.

Meredith sighs. "Yes, his parents and his sister. His sister's name is Apple. Their parents are dead – their father was whipped to death, and their mother died in childbirth. The baby died, too."

"Have you heard from them since the war?" Peeta asks.

Meredith's face flushes. "I – I wasn't back in District 11 long enough to find out."

We have to talk, I think, shooting Meredith a look.

"Well," Katniss says. "I want to hear about your war." She pushes her chair back, getting comfortable.

"You don't want the whole thing," I say.

"I think I just want to hear about the bridge," Katniss says, coolly. "Meredith told me it was a decisive battle."

I sigh. Time to tell it. I can feel Archer's eyes on me. For him, it's voyeurism. For Meredith, it's filling in the blanks. For Katniss and Peeta, it's the test of my character. "Okay," I say. "Here's the story."

General Cassius Gray, surrounded by gray-clad District 13 assistants and staff, unrolls a huge map upon the table.

We are standing in a briefing room in the airbase in District 7. Gus Lewis, Jennifer, Mark Salmon, Cornbread, Kae Lyn, and I, in our camouflage mottle-green uniforms, gather around the table, staring at the map.

Gray traces his finger down a long road through mountains and across a canyon. "This is what the Capitol calls the 'Appian Way,'" he says, in his smooth voice. "It was built about 30 years ago to connect the Capitol with District 7. It is a major highway, primarily used for moving milled wood from District 7 to the Capitol."

Lewis nods his head, and says to us, "The mountainous terrain between the Capitol and District 7 is too rugged for a rail route, so the Capitol built a highway instead."

"Precisely," Gray says. "Now, we are attacking the Capitol along three routes, south, east, and north. Driving on three axes of advance, we shall surround the Capitol with overwhelming force."

The only sound is the whir of air-conditioning. Gray continues. "President Coin herself has appointed me to command the drive from the north. I have 40,000 troops under my command. The defenders are mostly at the front, here, in these mountains." He makes squiggles on the map with a marker pen. "We will drive down the Appian Way, in force, all the way to the Capitol. It will be a pont au feu, as Napoleon would say, creating a split in the defensive lines, and our forces will rush through the crust, and drive south, like an expanding torrent."

We stare down at the map. Gray continues. "The problem, ladies and gentlemen, is this canyon." He points at a river that the road crosses. An aide whips out photographs shot from a hoverplane. It shows an arch bridge over a canyoned river. We study the photographs. I wonder where this is…is this what they used to call Idaho? Or Montana? Our sense of geography is gone in Panem, destroyed by wars, rising oceans, ignorance, totalitarianism, and general destruction.

"We must take and hold this bridge," Gray says. "Otherwise our offensive stalls on this canyon. Consequently, I am assigning the 1st Special Service Force to seize the bridge in a night airborne assault, take it intact, and hold it until our relief force reaches it."

Lewis stares down at the map. He runs his fingers over the map and examines the photographs. I see that the far side of the bridge is surrounded by hilly terrain, and the highway goes through a notch between them. "This is good ground to hold," he says.

The near side of the bridge has a smattering of buildings. "What are these?" Lewis asks.

"There appears to be a truck stop there," One of Gray's aides says. "And a small defense position for the Peacekeepers. We believe about 40 or so Peacekeepers are barracked there. And a supply area."

"The Capitol must know how important this bridge is to them as to us," Lewis says. "I don't see any anti-aircraft defenses."

"They have moved them up to the front," the aide responds. "The Capitol is increasingly short of manpower and supplies."

"Any indications that it's wired for demolition?" Lewis asks.

"Not that we know of," another aide says.

"I'll assume it is," Lewis says. "What about enemy forces in the area?"

"There aren't any," Gray says. They have everything in the 'shop-window,' at the front. About 10,000 defenders at the front line. I outnumber them and outgun them."

Lewis does not react. He keeps his eye on the map. "What about reserves coming up from the Capitol?" He points at the map. "I see a railhead here, 20 miles south of the bridge."

"Our hoverplanes can bomb the railhead, and keep the tracks blocked. They will not be able to respond to your attack."

Lewis merely stares down at the map. No reaction. I can tell that he's digesting the situation and the plan.

"If you take this bridge," Gray says, "Not only will it speed our advance, but it will cut the supply line to the front, and we will roll up the defenders more speedily. Vertical envelopment."

Lewis nods. "So you want us to take this bridge and hold it. For how long?"

"Two days," Gray says. "We only have 40 miles to go."

"We can hold for four," Lewis says. "And more, if we are get adequate supplies and air support."

Gray nods. "Excellent. Then I will leave it to you and my staff to work out the details. We go a week from Sunday."

With that, Gray departs, with most of his staff, leaving behind three aides, Bellamy being one of them.

Lewis places his hands down on the table and stares intently at the map. His face hardens. "I said we could hold for four days. However, I do not believe General Gray will get to us in four days. Or six."

"He outnumbers the defenders on his front line by four to one," I hear myself saying.

"The Peacekeepers facing General Gray also have very good ground," Lewis says. "And I'm not sure his idea of repeating Napoleon is that wonderful an idea."

"You told us that Napoleon was a great general," Jennifer says. "He won a lot of battles."

"He also lost a lot of battles," Lewis says. He looks up at Bellamy. "I assume that you have the logistical scales and tables for our drop already prepared?"

Bellamy looks unnerved. "Not yet…I started this morning."

"Whatever you are ordering, double it," Lewis says. "I want an immediate re-supply drop as soon as we have consolidated the position. That'll give us more ammunition and supplies from the start."

Bellamy nods, obedient but not understanding why.

Lewis stares down at the map again. For a few moments, he is silent. Then he gives his plan, in rapid-fire style. "We will drop on the near side of the bridge, which is relatively flat, at 2 a.m. One company will attack the Peacekeeper barracks, while the other two companies will take the bridge in a coup de main. As soon as the bridge is secure, we will consolidate on these hills, and hold until relieved."

The aides nod their heads. Lewis continues. "In the re-supply drop, I want containers of barbed wire and land mines. We'll immediately start entrenching. Drop some of those portable digging machines. I also want twice the number of machine-guns, and full ammunition scales. Can you do that?"

One of the aides says, "Sir, that's a lot of supplies for a force of 700 men."

Lewis bores into the aide's eyes. "I want this bridge held by live Black Devils, not dead ones. So that means I want a lot of supplies."

He points at the railhead to the south. "And I want air support. I want that railhead bombed regularly. I want air support on call. Assign an air support control team to the force. Have them arrive with the re-supply mission."

"Is there anything else," Bellamy asks.

"Are you sure about the weakness of the defenders?" Lewis says.

"Absolutely," Bellamy answers.

"And the anti-aircraft weapons."

"They've moved them to the front," Bellamy says. "They're getting short of them."

Lewis nods. "Yes, we control the factories. All right. Thank you."

The aides leave us, to formulate our detailed planning. Lewis picks up a coffee mug from a credenza behind him and pours himself some tea. "They won't be up to us in four days," he says. "Most likely six."

"You told him we could hold for four," I say.

"To make him move faster," Lewis says. "If I told him how long I really think we can hold, Gray would take longer." He starts pouring more tea for us. "His plan to rush down that road like a charging bull won't work, either. That's mountainous terrain."

"So what should he do?" Kae Lyn asks.

"He should make his first move an attack by mountain infantry across the high ground to envelope the road from both sides," Lewis says, pointing at the map. "Once the defenders are bagged, then he can move forward with his vehicles. After the battle is engaged, he should then do the airborne assault on the bridge, and reinforce it immediately with more infantry and vehicles, also delivered by hoverplane.

"Then the airborne force at the bridge would hold it, while the motorized commando force moves on the railhead to take it out of commission. By then, his armor will be up to the bridge. It would be like the Chindits in Burma back during the Second World War, where the British created an operating base of airheads behind Japanese lines to strike out at the Japanese communications, all supplied by air. The British even had fighter planes based in the airheads."

Lewis sips his tea thoughtfully. "But Cassius Gray is in a hurry to win the war single-handedly, and he's not going to do that. So we have to do it for him."

"Why was Cassius Gray in a hurry to win the war singlehandedly," Peeta asks.

"I can answer that," Meredith says. "I was in that mechanized force. He was racing against Commander Paylor. He knew that whoever won the race to the Capitol would win the glory and be named commander-in-chief after the war. He was fighting for a place in the history books."

"So what happened next," Archer asks.

"Well, we made our plans, we briefed the troops, rehearsed the attack, and on that Saturday night we all went out to the flight line to board the hoverplanes," I say. "And Gus Lewis had a surprise for us."

Loaded up with gear and supplies, the men and women of the 1st Special Service Force is drawn up on the flight line, waiting to board their hoverplanes. As we walk towards them, we hear band music from our sides. Out of the dark comes a band, complete with drums.

Lewis also emerges from the dark, and points at the band. "Had them trained with the soldiers," he says. "No army in history has ever marched without a drummer."

The band starts playing a tune, unfamiliar to me. Jennifer leaps up, and shouts, "I know this song!"

She brays it out:

"We are a band of brothers, and native to the soil,

"Fighting for our liberty, with treasure, blood, and toil,

"And when our rights were threatened, the cry rose near and far,

"Hurrah for the Bonnie Blue Flag, that flies the single star!"

She continues singing the song, which seems to be about a rebellion against tyranny. Nobody joins in. Nobody seems to know the song. Lewis watches, grinning. "Shakespeare," he yells at me.

I jump up and trot over to him. All Black Devils are expected to run when outside a building. "Yes, sir," I say.

"Looks like Jennifer is the only one in the outfit who knows this song," Lewis says.

"I don't know it," I say.

"It's a fight song for a rebellion in North America hundreds of years ago. I selected it years ago for a Peacekeeper band, from an old book of band music. It's called 'Bonnie Blue Flag.' The funny thing is, the rebels in that war were fighting to keep their slaves."

I look puzzled at Lewis. He sees my puzzlement. "I'm letting you know for your story, Shakespeare. They're going to sing songs from that same music book. I'll get a list of the songs for you for your story."

A corporal brings up a tray with mugs of tea for us. He passes out the tea to Lewis and the other officers. Lewis plunks himself down with the other officers, watching Sergeant Allen supervise the efforts to load the hoverplanes. Once the terror of officer training, Allen is now the senior sergeant in our force. We watch Allen yell at a crew pushing a pallet loaded with ammunition up the ramp and onto the hoverplane.

"He's been a real benefit to us," Lewis says, sipping his tea.

"All he did was yell at me," I say.

"He was just trying to stretch you out to the limits of your endurance," Lewis says. "So that you would do your job under real stress."

The band strikes up another tune. I recognize it. "Men of Harlech," which Lewis has chosen as the theme song for our force. Some of the troops start singing the song, and soon everyone is joining in.

"Men of Harlech, stop your dreaming

Can't you see their spearpoints gleaming

See their warrior pennants streaming

To this battle field

Men of Harlech stand ye steady

It can not be ever said ye

For the battle were not ready

Welshmen never yield.

From the hills rebounding

Let this war cry sounding

Summon all at Cambria's call

The mighty foe surrounding

Men of Harlech on to glory

This will ever be your story

Keep these burning words before ye

Welshmen will not yield."

As the song ends, the band strikes up another tune, but it is drowned out by an advancing song, coming from a vehicle rolling up the flight line towards us. The band drains off. We all turn to see the incoming music and its source.

Out of the dark rolls an open vehicle, with loudspeakers on it, braying out a song.

"Fighting soldiers from the sky

Fearless men who jump and die

Men who mean just what they say

The brave men of the Green Beret

Silver wings upon their chest

These are men, America's best

One hundred men will test today

But only three win the Green Beret

Trained to live off nature's land

Trained in combat, hand-to-hand

Men who fight by night and day

Courage peak from the Green Berets

Silver wings upon their chest

These are men, America's best

One hundred men will test today

But only three win the Green Beret

Back at home a young wife waits

Her Green Beret has met his fate.

He has died for those oppressed

Leaving her his last request

Put silver wings on my son's chest

Make him one of America's best

He'll be a man they'll test one day

Have him win the Green Beret."

Out of the vehicle climbs the gray-uniformed General Cassius Gray, neat as ever. The driver shuts off the music, and Gray strides over to us. Lewis rises and salutes the boss.

"Good evening, General," Lewis says.

Gray salutes back, and smiles. "It's an old war song for an elite unit of American commandos, the Green Berets. I thought you'd like it to send you and your men off."

"Well, I'm not American, sir," Lewis says. "And we have our own theme song."

Gray's smile disappears. "I went to a lot of trouble to find you an appropriate song, Colonel." He walks past Lewis and towards us. We all pop to attention. "No ceremony, no ceremony, troops," Gray says, beaming. "I just wanted to say a few words before you go off. Gather round!"

The Black Devils break from drinking tea, loading gear, checking supplies, and gather round Gray. Lewis stands behind him, trying to look poker-faced.  
"At dawn, my force will launch the big offensive. By that time, you will all be in position at the bridge. You will hold that bridge, and our army will drive across it, and all the way to the Capitol," Gray says. "Once my armored vehicles are over that bridge, there will be nothing to stop us from conquering the Capitol, winning this rebellion, and defeating President Snow!

"What you men and women do tonight and for the next two days will be critical to my advance and us winning the war! So I want you to know this: you are going to take that bridge tonight, and you are going to hold it against anything the Capitol throws at you! No matter what happens, you will hold that bridge, even if it costs the life of every single one of you! You will take that bridge, and hold that bridge! If you are not victorious, let no man come back alive!"

We take this in, somewhat amazed at the demand.

"I don't care about casualties! I care about winning! We are going to crush the Peacekeeper! If necessary, I am prepared to sacrifice every single one of you to hold that bridge! You may all die out there, but in your sacrifice, you will win this war, defeat the Capitol, and be forever remembered as the heroes that enabled me to conquer the Capitol! Your names will go down in glory! Your courage and valor will never be forgotten! You are going to fight the greatest and final Hunger Games, and you will win those Games! I salute you!"

He salutes us. We stare at him, amazed at his callousness.

"So good luck! And may the odds be ever in your favor!"

With that, Gray remounts his vehicle, and drives off into the dark. We all watch him roll away.

"What an idiot," Lewis says.

"I can't believe what I just heard," I say. "He hopes we all die?"

"I won't stand for that," Lewis says. He gestures at Sgt. Allen. "Get the men in formation," Lewis says.

Allen bawls out some commands, and the Black Devils all get in formation. Kae Lyn breaks out her camera and starts shooting. Lewis strides to the front of the formation, smacking his swagger stick against the back of his legs, as usual, lips pursed, looking pensive.

Finally he faces us. "Tonight, we are going to take that bridge. The Capitol is going to send its reserve Peacekeepers to try and take it back. The Capitol and the Peacekeepers think that we, as citizens of the Districts, are worthless bags of dirt, only fit to be Tributes in their Hunger Games or slaves in their factories, mines, and farms. They torture us, they starve us, they ruthlessly exploit us, and then they laugh at us, because they think we're not as good as them. We are going to prove them wrong. We are going to do so by holding that bridge, and killing as many of those murdering bastards as they send against us. When the relief forces hook up with us, they are going to find us holding that bridge, alive, well, and strong.

"You just heard from General Gray. I'm going to tell you that he's right and he's wrong. He's wrong when he says that we're all going to die out there so that he can win the war. We're all going to fight out there, so that we and our people can win the war. But he's right when he says that we are going to hold that bridge and that we are the very best troops our army has. Now remember this. I am in command, I will always be at your head, and I am going to bring back as many of you alive and victorious as possible.

"Now the enemy is a force of Peacekeepers, and they will probably fight well. But we have inflicted on them great defeats, in open battle, man-to-man. We have gained air superiority. The tide has turned. The free men and women of Panem are marching together to victory. The hopes and prayers of our people march with you.

"You have been in battles before. Small ones, medium-sized ones, patrol actions, and raids. This battle that we fight will be of the greatest importance. We take that bridge, we can overthrow the capitol and win the war."

He pauses for a moment, then says, "Hundreds of years ago, one of my ancestors, a man named Isaac Brock, led an Anglo-Canadian force to capture an American city named Detroit. The Americans surrendered to General Brock, and he became the first and only general to ever accept the surrender of an American city." Lewis smiles. "I intend to become the second, and I want all of you there with me when President Snow puts his signature on the document. We are going to win the war, together."

He steps away from the front of the men, and nods at Sgt. Allen. "Show that propo," Lewis says.

Allen punches buttons on the holo device on his wrist, and there, in the sky, is one of Plutarch Heavensbee's propaganda pieces. It's the footage of Katniss and Gale knocking Capitol hoverplanes out of the sky with their specially-designed bows and arrows. Katniss appears in the shot, snarling, "President Snow says he's sending us a message? Well, I have one for him. You can torture us and bomb us and burn our districts to the ground, but do you see that? The image is of a shot-down Capitol hoverplane burning on the roof of a warehouse, its seal melting into the image of Katniss's face, shouting at the president. "Fire is catching! And if we burn, you burn with us!" Flames engulf the screen again. Superimposed on them in black, sold letters are the words:

IF WE BURN

YOU BURN WITH US

The video ends. Lewis yells, "All right! Let's make these bastards burn! Let's free our people! Strike sure!"

Cheers spontaneously erupt from the troops. Lewis smiles. "Resume loading! Dismissed from parade!"

The troops scatter back to their duties and Lewis walks over to Kae Lyn and me. "You got the photos and the story?" he asks.

"I got it," I say.

"Right. Our people have had a pretty hard time of it for 75 years. They've earned the final victory. Let's give it to them. Let's get on with it," Lewis says. Then he walks away, alone, to stare at the route the departed General Gray took, shaking his head.

"So they really showed my propo before you attacked," Katniss says.

"Yes," I say. "And it did what it was supposed to. Fired everyone up, after General Gray brought us down."

"That was a lousy speech by Gray," Archer says.

"He gave the same speech to us before we attacked," Meredith says. "He didn't have much of an idea of management – I think he just watched some old movies or something. He told us he didn't care about casualties, too. And that he was going to conquer the Capitol. That upset everyone, but nobody was going to argue with the boss."

"The war was all about General Gray," Peeta says.

"Then what," Katniss asks.

"Then we loaded up the planes, and took off around midnight," I say.

"Where were you?" Katniss asks.

"I was in the command plane with Gus Lewis," I say. "The lead plane of the attack group, of course."

I am sitting in the cockpit of the lead hoverplane, with Kae Lyn, Lewis, and the flight crew. They monotonously chant off required information about position, course, and speed, as the planes fly in loose formation towards the front line, under a full moon.

Down below, we can see the lines of Cassius Gray's armored vehicles and troops, awaiting the order to advance. As we pass over the rebel army, we look down through windows at the troops.

"This reminds me of one of the books you had me read," I say to Lewis. "About the airborne invasion of Normandy."

"This is similar," Lewis says.

"I remember a line in that book," I say. "One of the paratroopers saying how awed he was to be a part of something that was so much greater than him."

Kae Lyn sets up her camera, and starts taking photographs of the assault force below. I write a few notes for the story I will have to file after we have made the drop.

Our planes swoop low over the ground forces, ostensibly trying to avoid the Capitol's radar detection devices, but actually so that the ground troops can see us going in, to boost their morale.

"Your girlfriend is down there," Lewis says.

"I know," I answer, my voice tightening.

"You won't be able to tell which vehicle is hers," Kae Lyn sings out, grinning. "I don't think she painted her name on it."

I have to laugh, in spite of the pre-battle tension.

"She'll be all right," Lewis says. "She has quarter-inch steel between her and the Peacekeepers. And they're only Peacekeepers. We're not fighting an elite army like Caesar's legions or Napoleon's Old Guard."

"How can you say that?" I ask Lewis. "I know the Peacekeepers. They're very hard people, well-trained, very tough. They're killers."

"Yes, but they're not trained to fight an opposing army," Lewis says. "They've spent the last 75 years bullying defenseless people, who could not fight back. They have never had to fight a real battle, and they don't respect us as a real army. They'll fight fiercely, but badly."

The moon shines on the rebel army. We see troops sitting or sleeping in assembly areas, on top of their vehicles, looking up at us.

"This is a very important thing we're doing," Lewis says. "Your country was founded originally to provide its citizens with 'life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.' My country was founded to provide its citizens with 'peace, order, and good government.' The dictatorship of Panem has provided its residents with neither. It has denied its residents life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, and good government. It's turned peace into the ritualized and appalling violence of the Hunger Games. And it maintains order through tyranny. We're going to end this tyranny and bring all those virtues back. You and me and the rest of the Black Devils."

"What about those guys on the ground, waiting to attack?" I ask. "There are 40,000 of them. Don't they count?"

"They won't be able to break through unless we do our job. Cassius Gray thinks that being a great general is making speeches at victory parades, not leading men in battle. We take the bridge, we hold the bridge, the Peacekeepers at the front get strangled. So it's all up to us. But doing our job won't be a problem."

"There are only 700 of us," I say.

"Yeah, but we are free men fighting for our homes trying to defeat a tyranny. The Peacekeepers – with respect to your father – are just third-rate thugs with a lot of weaponry," Lewis answers. He smiles. "So the odds are drastically in our favor."

We swing over the troops and then begin to pull up. Down below, I see, in the moonlight, rebel troops looking up at us, waving and cheering. In the distance are white panel markers indicating the front-line, so that rebel hoverplanes don't bomb their own troops by mistake. The markers have Katniss's mockingjay pin stamped on them, to make them different from the Capitol's markers.

"The armies that the Mockingjay have inspired are ready to strike," I write in my notebook. The hoverplanes fly on in the dark. We will be over the drop zone in 15 minutes.


	14. Chapter 14

**INTERVIEW WITH THE MOCKINGJAY – Chapter 14**

As we approach the drop zone, the hoverplanes tighten up in formation, and Lewis, Kae Lyn, and I return to our stations. The DZ is on the north side of the bridge. A leading hoverplane activates its radar jammers to mask our drop. The hoverplane's dispatcher opens the side door, and yells, "Stand up and hook up!"

Lewis yells at us, "Stand by for red and green! Strike sure!"

The red light goes off in the plane, and so does a buzzer. Lewis yells, "Red on!"

We all yell back, "Red on!"

The dispatcher peers out of the open door, her body covered by her flight suit, nods, and looks back at Lewis, who nods back. He glances at the cockpit, and the green light goes off.

Lewis yells, "Green on! Go!" He leaps out of the plane first, figuratively and literally leading us into battle. One by one, the Black Devils leap out of the plane, shouting off their numbers as they pass the dispatcher. Failure to leap out of the plane – "jump refusal" – is a court-martial offense, which will result in savage disciplinary consequences by District 13 martinets and total social alienation from the rest of us. But we all leap out of the hoverplane, with me last in line, behind Kae Lyn.

As I jump, I tuck my head in, and the parachute spreads with a jerk. I can see all the other parachutes beneath me, and I guide my chute towards them. We will all land close together.

For a few moments, I can only hear the wind rushing past, my heavy breathing, and my heart pounding. It's my first combat drop – all of our other missions have been land operations. I can see a band of trees between the drop zone and the bridge. We will mass in the small woods for the attack. The Appian Way bisects the woods. At left of the bridge on our side, is my target, the Peacekeeper barracks. On the right is the truck stop, which is unoccupied, according to our intelligence. The primary defenses are a sandbagged machine-gun post on our side of the bridge and a similar one on the other side, as well as the Peacekeepers snoozing in their two-story barracks.

I hit the ground with a jar, and immediately unsnap myself from the chute, and run over to Kae Lyn, who has landed a couple of feet away. She nods, and we "roll up the stick" of Black Devils from our hoverplane silently, heading directly into the woods.

Overhead, the hoverplanes are pulling out.

We move to the edge of the trees, all wearing night glasses, supplied by District 11.

"They were like the night glasses you had in the arena," I say to Katniss.

She frowns for a moment. Then she remembers, nodding her head. "Rue showed me how they worked. They were amazing."

"We rounded up every one of the glasses we could find from District 11," I say. "Well, I should say that Gus Lewis did. He was meticulous about preparation. We even had sand tables and models to prepare for the attack."

I shoot Meredith, sitting next to me, a look. "Thank your folks for the glasses," I say.

She pales a little. "I didn't know they did that," she says. "I didn't have any."

We need to talk, I think. Before I can check myself, I blurt out, "Meredith, what happened when you got home to District 11?"

She grabs my hands. "Later," she says, firmly.

I can't wait. "Did something happen when you got home to District 11 after the war?" I ask.

Katniss cuts me off. "You two can resolve that later," she says, her voice hard. "I want to hear about your war. We were at the edge of the trees."

"Oh, right," I say.

All of us have our night glasses on, except Lewis, who has a powerful pair of binoculars. He scans the scene. We are all silent, knowing our jobs. First we take out the two Peacekeepers standing guard in the sandbagged emplacement on our side of the bridge. Then my platoon and Salmon's silently seize the sandbagged position, and take the guardhouse next to our emplacement. Simultaneously, Jennifer will take the rest of the battalion across the river by coup de main, grab the high ground opposite, and start "consolidating," or digging in.

Kae Lyn and Salmon are next to me, camera ready for Kae Lyn, a satchel charge for Salmon.

We stare at the thin defenses. There are about 30 or so Peacekeepers guarding this bridge, most of them snoozing in the guardhouse, four of them manning the two emplacements. And one guy sitting inside at the desk, watching his buddies on cameras, and probably playing Solitaire. Lewis's attack is dependent on speed, surprise, and sudden violence.

Lewis studies the positions. The two Peacekeepers in the nearer emplacement are standing there, gazing into the empty night. Next to their emplacement stands a flagpole. Lewis is satisfied. He nods his head. All is set. He whispers to me, "Let's get on with it. Strike sure."

I turn to a pair of Black Devils, who are aiming high-powered rifles with infra-red scopes. They can "paint" their target for accuracy. They aim their rifles at the two Peacekeepers, and squeeze gently on the triggers. Seconds later, the two Peacekeeper flop down into their emplacements, with little noise. It's like they've gone to sleep.

The two snipers aim their rifles again, this time on two cameras on the guardhouse, and fire two more shots. This time there is a shatter of glass, and a flash of sparks.

Lewis puts up his right arm in the air and points his hand forward. Then he rushes out at the head of our attack. All the Black Devils follow him, on rubber-soled boots, trotting across the open area. I lead Kae Lyn and Salmon and our platoon on a zigzag course, towards the sandbags. As we get there, I peer inside. The two Peacekeepers lie dead. I give my men a "thumbs-up" signal and point at the guardhouse, as Lewis and Jennifer and their men snake across the bridge. Two snipers flop down and prepare to take out the guards on the emplacement on the other side with their sniper scopes.

Silence, speed, surprise. These are the keys. We trot up to the guardhouse. A single light blazes from one of the first-floor windows, which are all covered with wire mesh to prevent someone from tossing in a grenade. The single light is the duty watchstander, who has probably given up his card game, and is fiddling with his camera monitors, trying to see if the reason they have gone black is mechanical before he goes out into the dark.

I hope he opens the door, so we can take him silently, and avoid having to use the satchel charge. I take up a position next to the doorknob, flattened against the wall, knife at the ready, Kae Lyn behind me. Salmon places his satchel charge.

As he does, the door opens. The duty Peacekeeper emerges, yelling, "Ovid? Serena? Are you awake?"

He's obviously asking for the now-dead Peacekeepers, to find out what's going on with the cameras. As he emerges, I grab him by the throat, jamming his Adam's-apple, and slam his head against the wall, slicing my knife across his neck. Blood spews out in a ferocious gush, and the Peacekeeper gurgles helplessly before slumping to the ground.

I point at Salmon, and he rips open the door, places his satchel charge inside, timer on, and nods. Our platoon all hits the dirt. Kae Lyn and I pull out two grenades.

The satchel charge explodes with a terrific roar, shattering all the windows on the guardhouse's first floor, blasting the light out. Yellow and red fire and smoke billows out of the building. The sound is deafening.

Kae Lyn and I run into the building, and we hurl our grenades down the hall into the fire and smoke. The grenades go off with the usual bang and we charge up the stairs on our right to the second floor, rifles out, firing ahead, screaming.

As we rush up the stairs, two Peacekeepers in their underwear appear at the top of the stairs. We mow them down and storm up onto the second floor, where Peacekeepers in various states of undress are leaping out of beds and reaching for rifles on stands in the center of the room. We fire at them, expending our clips. I turn around and hurl another grenade at the Peacekeepers behind us, which explodes, stunning them and giving me and the men behind me a few seconds to storm into the room and gun down the rest of the opposition. While I change clips, my men shoot the defenders. Then there is silence in the barracks room. My ears are ringing from the noise.

"Cease fire!" I yell. We hold up our rifles, and gag on the smoke. I run down the barracks room, past the beds and collapsed Peacekeeper bodies, and smash out the window at the end of the hall, to try and ventilate the building. The lights still glow harshly.

My men all stand around the room, looking to see if any of the Peacekeepers have escaped our fusillade. Peacekeepers lie grotesquely spread out, across the beds, on the floor, their bodies ripped open by the gashes and tears created by our bullets and grenades. There are no clean holes, like in the movies I used to watch with my girlfriends back in the Nut, which suddenly seems a million years ago.

Nobody is shooting, which may mean we've got everybody, or the survivors are under cover, hiding under the blankets or beds, waiting for a chance to whack an officer.

"Check this place out," I yell at my men. The guys start flipping over the beds, looking for living Peacekeepers. They find dead bodies, streaks and pools of blood, and scattered personal items in the debris – uniform components, clothing, dirty magazines, but nothing living.

I exhale. We got them. We got the bastards. "I think we're secure here," I say, finally able to hear again. I pull off my helmet, and clip it to a ring on my uniform. I grin at Kae Lyn. "You call that shooting?" I ask her, teasing her.

"You call that covering fire?" she retorts. "You suck."

"You suck, too," I fire back, as she advances toward me. As we are about to do a fist-bump of victory, I hear a moaning sound under a bed. I fling the bed over on its side, and there's a Peacekeeper, in his underwear, pale and puny without his armor and uniform, reaching for a pistol on the floor – and a framed photograph next to it. He is looking at me in terror.

I don't waste a second. I fire two bullets straight into his head, ripping it open, spewing bits of skull and brain all over the floor. He flops on the floor, hands just short of the pistol – and the photograph.

I stride over to him. "I hope he was reaching for that pistol," I say.

Kae Lyn grabs my shoulder. "I'm pretty sure he was," she says.

"I'll believe that if you do," I answer.

"I believe it," Kae Lyn says.

I pick up the pistol. It's loaded. I hand it to one of the soldiers in my platoon. "Shit," I say.

"Dodged one right there," Kae Lyn says.

"I said that your covering fire sucked," I say.

"Next time I'll do better," Kae Lyn answers. She smacks my arm. "Hey, back to work, you."

"Right," I say, and give her the overdue fist-bump.

"If you two are finished with the banter up here, I'd like to know how you did," Lewis says, coming up the stairs, trailing Jennifer, who waves the smoke out of her face. Lewis gazes at the carnage. "Looks like you secured the place. How many dead?"

"Haven't counted them yet," I say. I point at the Peacekeeper on the floor. "I shot him as he was reaching for his pistol – or his photograph."

Lewis looks down impassively at the dead man, whose eyes are vacant and head is a semi-liquid mass of blood, skull, and brain. "It was you or him," he says.

"What if he was reaching for the photograph…"

"We don't have time for that now," Lewis says, cutting me off. "You got him?"

I nod.

"Well, better you than him. Now you can sleep tomorrow night." He pauses. "Get the bodies hauled out of here. We'll get rid of them later. Take your platoon and follow Jennifer back across the bridge. She'll show you where to start digging in."

"Yes, sir," I say, still staring down at the man I just killed. Lewis, Jennifer, and Kae Lyn start heading down the stairs. Lewis glances up at me as he descends. "Forget it, Shakespeare. He probably didn't know what he was doing, either."

I follow Kae Lyn down the stairs and out of the guardhouse, back into the cleaner air. My platoon is gathered outside the building. My platoon sergeant, Charles Descheneaux, a former District 6 factory floor manager, stands there, ready to report. "Building's secure, sir. All dead."

I tell Descheneaux, "Get the platoon formed up, and follow Jennifer. When she shows you our sector, get everybody to start digging in. I'll be with you in a few minutes."

Descheneaux nods. My men move off behind him. I turn to Lewis, and put on my helmet again. "Sir, I have to put on my other hat now."

He smiles. "You have to be a combat correspondent now, hey?"

"Yes, sir, and Kae Lyn has to get some photographs. How did we do?"

"Just fine. The other two Peacekeepers are dead, and we're consolidating on those knobs," Lewis says. "No casualties."

"I need a quote," I say.

Lewis takes a professorial stance. "The assault went in with textbook precision and went according to plan. We could not have achieved this without the training, commitment, and strict obedience of every Black Devil. Now we have to hold the ground, until properly relieved."

He walks over to the sandbagged emplacement, trailing Kae Lyn, me, and the headquarters team. Lewis and I look into the emplacement and the grotesquely sprawled dead Peacekeepers. "Those bastards probably never knew what hit them," he says. "Good. Stupid idiots. That's what you get for not paying attention."

"I don't understand," I say.

"If they'd had any brains, they would have had more troops defending, land mines, sensors, and night patrolling," Lewis says. "But these are Peacekeepers. They expect to just bully their enemies into submission." He pauses. "Don't put that in your story. If we tell people what their weaknesses are, they might learn something."

Lewis kicks over a corpse, and uncovers their machine-gun. "Jennifer, have your guys take these sandbags and the machine-gun and add it to our defenses." He looks at the flagpole next to the emplacement. Lewis reaches for the wires, and tugs at them. "You want to get some pictures of this," he tells Kae Lyn. She obediently whips out her camera.

Lewis takes a cloth out of a front pocket, and attaches it to the flagpole wires. Then he raises the cloth, and it bursts out into a flag. The flag has three vertical stripes, a red one, a white one in the center, and another red one. On the middle white stripe is a red maple leaf. Lewis tugs and the flag rises to the top. He ties the flag wires, and the flag flutters in the darkness.

Lewis steps back, gives a spine-tingling salute, and then nods, folds his arms, and looks pleased. "Good, good," he says.

Kae Lyn snaps her photos. "What's all that about, sir," I ask.

"That's a Canadian flag," Lewis says, pointing up at the banner. "It was in a desk drawer in my office."

"Another family heirloom," I say.

"Right first time, Shakespeare," Lewis says, looking up at the flag with pride. "I want our guys to know that we're holding the ground and those Peacekeeper bastards to know just who took it from them. That flag stays there until we're relieved. You can put that in your story."

"What does the flag signify?" I ask.

"The red refers to Canada's English heritage and the white to its French heritage, and the maple leaf was a traditional symbol of Canada," Lewis says. "Panem is finished here."

He turns to one of his headquarters staff, a District 5 woman with red hair, burdened down with a huge backpack and headphones. "Let's get that re-supply mission in here," Lewis says. "Send the 'success' signal, Lombardi."

The signaler speaks into her mouthpiece, "Ham and jam. Ham and jam. Ham and jam." She says it over and over again. Lewis moves away from the flagpole, and says to me, "The success signal is from a famous British assault on a bridge in an invasion in World War II. Put that in your story."

"Yes, sir," I say.

Lewis glances at his watch, and his Holo. The blue light of its geographic information lights up the darkness for a few moments, while he studies it. Then Lewis flips it off. "Okay. We should be getting our drop in 20 minutes. That should give you enough time to get your quotes. I'm going to check out this truck stop, see if it's got any additional supplies." He starts walking off.

Kae Lyn asks, "What should we do with the bodies of the dead Peacekeepers? Dump them in the river?"

Lewis turns on her. "You crazy? We have to drink that water." He thinks for a minute, then points off where we came from. "Have a couple of guys in your platoon start digging a mass grave for the dead Peacekeepers. We'll bury them there. Get their names if you can, but don't waste time on any ceremony." He starts walking off.

"What about our guys?" I hear myself asking.

Lewis turns around, clapping his swagger stick behind him into his hands, and strides right up to me, looking me in the eye. "I don't propose to lose any of our men, Shakespeare."

"Yes, sir, but what if we do?"

Lewis smiles tightly. "We'll create a proper cemetery for them on the far side of the bridge, and each one will get a separate burial, photographed, and properly marked," he says. "If we have to. But I don't propose to lose any of our men, Shakespeare. And we will hold this ground." He turns to his crew. "Let's get on with it, then."

Without waiting for an answer, he turns around and walks over to the darkened truck stop, leaving me shaking my head.

"He really thought that you would take no casualties," Archer says, amazed.

"Yeah," I say, nodding. "Gus was an elitist. He said we were better than anything the Peacekeepers could throw at us. We could not lose, we would not lose. He was going to bring every one of us back home alive."

"But he knew that couldn't happen," Katniss says. "He knew that his men and women would die."

"He didn't want us to think about that," I say. "He wanted us to believe we were invincible. And it worked."

Peeta leans forward. "What happened to that Peacekeeper you killed?"

"The one in the barracks, you mean," I say. "The one who was reaching for the photograph."

"Or the pistol," Meredith says, squeezing my hand.

"We dumped his body in a big ditch with all the other dead Peacekeepers," I say.

"Who was in the picture," Peeta says, continuing.

"It was his mother, of course," I say, shaking my head, feeling the unpleasant memories again. I can smell the cordite, the sweet stench of blood, and feel the concussion of the grenades again. "Gus Lewis said that no soldier ever died shouting for the glory of Rome, or Napoleon, or the Emperor, only for his mother."

Katniss bends her head over into her lap, then looks up again. "So you never knew if that Peacekeeper was reaching for his pistol or his photograph," she says.

"No," I say flatly.

"You just shot him," she says.

"Yes," I answer. "Two shots. In the head. At close range. His head exploded in front of me."

Katniss gives me the thousand-yard stare. "I did the same thing, in the Capitol. I have nightmares about it."

"So do I," I say. "I think about that Peacekeeper a lot."

She plops her head back in her arms, then looks up again. "So you got your airdrop from your sponsors."

I smile wanly. "We had good sponsors. Right after I finished getting my quotes and Kae Lyn got her photos, the hoverplanes showed up on cue and started dropping all our supplies to us."

"So far the odds were very much in your favor," Archer says.

"We spent the rest of the night 'consolidating,' which is a fancy word for digging foxholes and trenches, laying out landmines and barbed wire, and deploying machine-guns," I say.

"Was there anything good in the truck stop?" Peeta asks.

"Not a lot," I say. "Not much food. Fuel for trucks, stuff like that."

"So you just dug in," Katniss says.

"Well, it was pretty easy, with those night goggles. We could see everything. We laid out necklaces of mines and infra-red sensors, barbed wire. It took most of the night. By the time Kae Lyn and I had finished filing our copy, our foxholes were ready."

Katniss looks at me, puzzled. "Foxholes?"

"They're little holes in the ground like a fox would dig, for us to be concealed."

"What do you mean, 'they were ready?'" Archer asks.

"Kae Lyn and I didn't have to dig ours. We were officers," I say. "Sgt. Descheneaux took care of that for us."

"So where is our foxhole," I ask Descheneaux.

The huge sergeant points to a large one. "All set, sirs. I had the new guys do it. Luther and de la Cruz."

Kae Lyn and I slump down into the foxhole with Descheneaux. Our gear has already been placed in it. "Your guys are good," I say.

"They needed to get straightened out a little," he says. "They're replacements, so they're a little nervous."

"Better nervous than cocky," I say, as I light up my laptop computer. Kae Lyn does the same with hers, to file her photographs.

"Yes, sir," Descheneaux says, standing by the foxhole.

As I type, I ask, "Is the platoon in position and properly deployed?"

"Yes, sir," Descheneaux answers. "We're setting up mines and sensors. We're ready."

I bang away at the keyboard. "Make sure everybody's fed. I'm sure we'll have to stand-to at dawn." I look up at the sergeant. "For goodness' sake, Sergeant, please, join us down here."

"I've got my own foxhole nearby, sir," he says. "Gotta stay with the men."

I shake my head. "Okay, Sergeant." For some reason, Descheneaux is very big on the officer-soldier separation. I guess he doesn't want the men to see him cozying up to the officers, even if Kae Lyn and I are really journalists in uniform. "You can take off now, Sergeant," I say.

He nods and heads for his foxhole, and I continue writing my article. I glance up at the sky. It's nearly 3:30 a.m. In a short time, Cassius Gray will begin his attack, opening with an artillery bombardment. Thirty miles from the front lines, we should see the flashes in the sky and possibly hear the rumble of his heavy guns.

But the only sound is the thud of spades into the ground, the mutter of conversation, and the clink of messkits as the Black Devils take advantage of the break for some breakfast.

"They used to have a phrase, 'Smoke 'em if you got em,'" I say to Kae Lyn. "This is the time for that."

She laughs. "The calm before the storm."

I slap my laptop closed, having finished and filed my story. Later today all of the Rebellion will be reading it, learning about the big airborne assault. I climb out of the foxhole to inspect my platoon's positions, making sure everyone is dug in properly. On the hilltop, it's a little windy. The guys are huddling in their green camouflage uniforms, rifles and machine-guns ready, peering out into the dark in their night goggles. Nobody is talking much.

When I return to my dugout, Gus Lewis has turned up, checking on us. "You got your story filed, Shakespeare?" he asks.

"Yes, sir."

"Several hundred years ago," he says, "There was a British leader named Winston Churchill. He fought in a couple of wars, where he did the same thing you did. He was a lieutenant in the British Army and a special correspondent for a newspaper. He was hoping to make a name for himself by filing stories about heroic action and participating in it. He thought it would get him elected to political office."

"Did it work," Kae Lyn asks.

"He became Britain's greatest leader," Lewis says. He smiles at me. "Are you planning to run for office after we win the war, Shakespeare?"

"I haven't thought ahead that far, sir," I say.

"Maybe you should." He climbs down and sits in the foxhole with us. "When we take this bridge, it's a clear road all the way to the Capitol. After we dig out Snow's government, we have to build a whole new country. You could be one of its political leaders."

I laugh. "I'm not that grandiose. I'd rather write about the country than lead it."

"Fair enough," Lewis says. He peers out into the night. "How about you, Kae Lyn?"

"I'm a photographer," she says. "What about you, sir?"

"I have a particular goal," he says. "One of my ancestors is a guy named Isaac Brock. On my mother's side. He was the only foreign general to accept the surrender of an American city. He took the surrender of Detroit in 1814." He grins at us. "I want to be the second, when I make President Snow surrender the Capitol to me, personally. Then I'll raise that flag I have over the Capitol. Just long enough to get some photographs."

"What will that accomplish, sir," Kae Lyn asks.

"It would amuse the hell out of my ancestors," he says. "Canada never had a tradition of being a nation of conquerors and invaders." He pauses. "After I've had my personal joke on Coriolanus Snow and his pals, I think I'd like to get back to military instruction. I'd like to set up a whole new army, a professional, non-political force to protect our borders and perform humanitarian missions."

As we stare into the night, Jennifer emerges out of the gloom with two more Black Devils, who bring mugs of freshly-brewed tea, Lewis's favorite drink.

"Tea's ready, sir," Jennifer says. It's interesting how quiet and deferential the brassy cattle rancher is when she's dealing with her boss. She hands us cups of hot, fresh, steaming tea.

"Thanks, Jennifer," he says. "I'll be back at the CP in a little while." She goes.

Lewis sips his tea. "If anything happens to me, Shakespeare, she's the boss," he says. "Just want you to know."

I don't respond to that. I can't imagine the force without its founder. Instead I ask, "Borders, sir? What are they?"

"That's another thing we need to do," he says. "We have 13 scattered districts and a central capital city. We need to define our borders and find out what's going on with the rest of the world. We don't know what's out there. There are whole continents beyond us. Hundreds of years ago, we had satellites in orbit and means of immediate communication across the entire world. Nowadays, if it wasn't for Capitol-controlled television, District 2 wouldn't know there was a District 1."

We stare out into the darkness quietly for a while. Then I ask, "So who's going to run the country, sir?"

"It won't be me," Lewis says. "That's certain. Maybe it'll be the Mockingjay. Katniss Everdeen. She can run the country. She started the rebellion. She united us. I would not have done it if it hadn't been for her."

"How's that, sir?"

"I was watching the 74th Hunger Games in my office at the Peacekeeper Academy in the Capitol, when she and Peeta held up the nightlock at the very end," Lewis says. "I was correcting tests while watching the games. The essays stank, of course. And I'm pretty sure the students were cheating on the multiple-choice portions of the tests. I was sitting there, thinking, 'How stupid is this? I'm one of the very few people in all of Panem who knows anything about what this world used to be like, and how much better it could be than this idiotic tyranny, and I'm sitting here, helping it continue and making things worse by supporting it.'"

I sip my tea, and Lewis continues.

"Then I saw Katniss and Peeta holding up the nightlock, and them telling the Gamemakers that they could take their sadistic and idiotic game and shove it up their rear ends. And the Gamemakers panicked, and surrendered. So I thought, 'It's that easy? I'm doing the wrong thing, in the wrong place, for the wrong reasons.' I was betraying everything my family had ever stood for. And two teenagers young enough to be my kids were braver than me. I felt embarrassed.

"So I phoned up a friend of mine, who I knew was part of the Underground, and told him we had to meet. After I finished correcting the tests, we met up in a park, and I joined the Underground. He told me what they were doing.

"When I got the word the fighting would break out, I signed a few movement orders for my family and our gear, shipping them to District 8, to get them away from the authorities. Then I told my classes I was going to District 8 to take charge of putting down the rebellion, and off I went." He sips some more tea.

"While I was riding the train to District 8, I threw my electronic pass card for the Academy out the train window, and I remembered something Julius Caesar said when he led his men across the Rubicon in his revolution. He said, 'Alea jacta est.' It means, 'The die is cast.'"

"See what you did?" Archer asks Katniss, grinning. "Look at that."

"It was Peeta's idea," Katniss says, quietly. "It was such a mess…when they announced that there could only be one winner, he took out his knife and threw it in the lake."

"I was going to kill myself. I couldn't kill Katniss," he says. "But it was really your idea."

"I realized that they had to have a victor, and if we both died, they wouldn't have a victor, and the whole thing would blow up in their faces," Katniss says.

"And it did," I say.

"I just didn't realize how big the explosion would be."

"It's something my pal George Altman calls the 'law of unintended consequences,'" I say. "It was waiting to happen."

Katniss shakes her head. "But it's not what I wanted. Not what I was planning. And look what happened…so many people dead, my district ruined, my sister Primrose killed."

"You freed a whole nation," I say.

"I didn't do all that," Katniss answers. She looks back up at me. "You did. At that bridge. Go on."

"Oh, right," I say.

Lewis glances at his watch. "They should be about to open fire now," he says. He turns around in the foxhole and looks north, expecting to see lightning flashes reflect against the sky, and to hear distant rumbling.

We wait and watch, reluctant to break the silence. All the Black Devils are looking to their rear, waiting for the barrage.

Nothing. For the longest time.

Lewis looks down at his watch again. He shakes his head. "They should have opened fire five minutes ago."

Wind whistles through the trees. Leaves shake. But no artillery bombardment.

Lewis stands up in our dugout and yells, "Jennifer! Lombardi! Get over here!"

Jennifer and the signaler come running up and jump into our dugout. Lewis snaps at Jennifer, "Am I stupid or is it past 0430 hours?"

"4:45 a.m., just like the big book," Jennifer says.

Without being prompted, Lombardi pulls the phone attachment out of her radio transmission pack and hands it to Lewis, who starts talking into the phone, a flurry of military jargon.

There are answers at the other end, and then Lewis says, "What do you mean, 'postponed?' What the hell?"

More muffled words.

"I see, all right, thank you." He hangs up the phone on its pack. Lombardi looks petrified. Jennifer is puzzled. Lewis stares out at the direction the Peacekeepers will come from.

He purses his lips, and taps his swagger stick into his left hand for a minute. Then he says to Jennifer, "What time is dawn?"

"5:07 a.m.," she answers.

"Have the battalion stand-to. Assume the threat direction is our front. Pass the word."

"Yes, sir," Jennifer says. She and Lombardi hop out of the foxhole. Lewis stares out, his face a mask of rage. Then he cools down. Still staring at the front, he says, "The attack is postponed by 24 hours."

"What?" I gasp.

"Twenty-four hour delay," Lewis says. "General Gray's logistics people botched up their job."

"Bellamy screwed up?" Kae Lyn asks.

"Bellamy was doing our logistics, and he did fine," Lewis says, his voice harsh. "Not Gray's cronies. Traffic's screwed up for miles. They didn't get enough fire units to the guns last night, and they won't have enough rounds until late this afternoon. So, a 24-hour postponement."

"So we're stuck out here for an additional day?" I ask. "What the hell?"

Lewis smiles grimly. "I told you Cassius Gray could not get up to us in two days or even four. That's all right. We'll hold this ground. We hold until relieved."

He points out at the front. "We'll stand-to in case of dawn assault, which is what I would do. If they don't attack by 7, we can stand down, but I want everybody ready now. That includes you, Shakespeare."

I leap out of my foxhole and yell, "Second Platoon, stand-to! Sergeant Descheneaux, get everybody up!"

I hear Descheneaux roar back, "Second Platoon, off your asses!"

"Make sure you have your machine-guns in position for interlocking fire," Lewis says, pointing his swagger stick. "They'll attack in a broad mass first."

"We took care of that, sir," I say. "We won't let you down."

"Great." Lewis climbs out of the foxhole. "I have to brief my CP guys." He looks down at us. "Don't get so worried, Shakespeare. We just have to hold for an additional day, that's all." He smiles. "No problem. We're Black Devils."

Then he jogs off in the dark, not running too quickly. Officers, he has said, should not run too fast, to inspire the men with their contempt for danger.

I turn back to Kae Lyn. Her eyes look wide. "What," I ask. "Are you scared?"

"No," she says. "It's something else."

"What?"

"What if they don't attack at all? What if they leave us out here? We'll run out of food, ammunition, and men."

I stare out at the front. That's a good question. If Gray never attacks, we're surrounded, 700 men and women against every Peacekeeper and the entire Panem arsenal. Tracker jackers, gas, mutts, artillery. We'll get slaughtered.

"Gus says we'll hold this ground," I say to Kae Lyn.

"But what happens if they leave us out here," Kae Lyn repeats. "And the Peacekeepers slaughter us?"

Finally, I come up with an answer. "Well, if we get slaughtered, it'll be a hot one for the after-action debriefing," I say.


	15. Chapter 15

**INTERVIEW WITH THE MOCKINGJAY – Chapter 15**

"They didn't hit us at dawn," I say to Katniss and Peeta. "It was kind of an anti-climax."

"Did you ever find out why," Peeta asks.

"Well, it didn't take long to find out why," I say. "After we stood down, Gus Lewis had an 'O Group.'"

Everyone but Meredith stares at me, puzzled. She explains, "That's what they called a meeting of officers in a unit, to give them orders. 'O for orders,'" she says.

Katniss nods in recognition, but with no emotion. "Why didn't your pal Gray attack at dawn," she asks.

"I can answer that," Meredith says. "His supply officers did a lousy job. They brought up the wrong stores and in the wrong order. When the artillerymen were preparing to open fire, they found that they simply didn't have enough shells for the barrage program. There was a lot of screaming and yelling, and about half an hour before the bombardment was supposed to start, the whole attack was called off."

"Why did they do such a lousy job?" Archer asks.

"They were his cronies from District 11," Meredith says, her voice chilly with anger and fury. "Most of the District 11 Peacekeepers defected along with Gray to the rebellion, so he put the top ones on his staff."

"I remember those Peacekeepers from the Victory Tour," Katniss says. "They shot Rue's family right after we gave them a portion of our winnings."

"I was there," Meredith says, her voice quavering. "They didn't kill all of them. Just enough to remind everybody who was the boss."

"Did they actually get the money we sent them?" Peeta asks.

"At first, they got it," Meredith says. "Then…" she looks down at the floor and squeezes my hand tightly. We have to talk, I think again.

"Things went very badly in District 11," Meredith says, still looking down.

Katniss does not respond to that. She knows something, I think. She looks at me. "And then," she asks.

XXXXX

The sun is climbing into the sky, casting long shadows over the dirt and sand near the battered Peacekeepers' guard hut. All the officers are gathered around the abandoned machine-gun post, sitting on sandbags. Overhead, Gus Lewis's ancient Canadian flag cracks in the sharp wind. Dirt and dust fly through the air, and we have to rub our eyes to keep them out.

Lewis stands in the center of the group, holding his swagger stick and a clipboard. "I don't like these holos," he says. "I like having things on paper." He looks down at his sheets of paper, which are flapping. We can hear the men still digging their trenches and holes, and cleaning their weapons.

"Okay," he says. "As you know, the big attack did not go off this morning. However, we were not counterattacked this morning, either. So, we are going to continue to hold this ground. General Gray assures us that his attack will take place tomorrow. We can also be assured of an enemy attack sometime today, probably in a couple of hours."

"Do we know the direction of this attack, sir?" Salmon asks quietly.

"It will probably come from our front," Lewis says, pointing his swagger stick. "Over there."

"Seems to me the logical thing for the Peacekeepers to do is attack us from where we came from, our rear," Jennifer says.

"They could, but they won't have any troops to spare for an attack from our rear, unless they strip the front lines. Then they'll have to move that force through their own rear, which will be a traffic jam from hell," Lewis answers. "So they're not likely to do anything more than put up a blocking force in our rear to prevent us from raiding their supply bases." Lewis rubs his eyes. "No, they're Peacekeepers. They're going to treat us like a riot, and show their usual arrogance. They'll attack us directly from our front, and we will defeat them at the front."

He smiles thinly. "You're forgetting that I used to train these people, folks. I know how they like to operate. They will hit us with a full frontal assault." Lewis turns to me. "Shakespeare, you want to have action to write about? I'll give you plenty. Your men are deployed on the left side of the road, and they will likely attack that point. I don't want to see a single Peacekeeper reach our positions."

"Yes, sir," I say. "We'll hold the line."

"If I see a single Peacekeeper break through our positions, I will hold you responsible. Then I will hold you in irons," Lewis says, with a larger smile.

"Lucky boy," Jennifer says. "You'll get the glory."

"And the medals," Cornbread adds.

"Thanks, fellas, I'll be sure to write about it, and your magnificent support of me," I say.

"We'll all be cheering," Kae Lyn says.

"The attack we receive will be the first, but not the last," Lewis says. "There will be more. All we have to do is defeat them, each and every time. As we will."

"Sir, can we do that by just digging in and waiting for them," Salmon asks. "That seems a little passive to me."

"For the first attack, that will do fine," Lewis answers. "But you're right, Mr. Fish." Salmon's nickname, obviously, is "Fish."

"We will take the battle to the Peacekeepers," Lewis says. "We'll fight this battle meticulously and in a set-piece fashion. We have to minimize our casualties, so I don't propose to go charging off against these guys like an old-time cavalryman when we see them. The Americans tried that several hundred years ago, right near here." He points eastward. "At a place called the Little Big Horn. Over there. They got slaughtered. We'll bring them in to our positions, then hit them hard."

Lewis claps his clipboard closed. "Let's get on with it, then," he says. "Strike sure."

We rise from our sandbags and rejoin our various units, and Kae Lyn and I climb into our foxhole, which has been made considerably deeper during the meeting. Descheneaux stands above it.

"I see you did some digging," I say.

"Yes, sir," Descheneaux says. "We may be here for a while. I had Luther and de la Cruz take care of it."

"That's fine," I say, hopping into the hole. Kae Lyn and I peer out to the south, down the road, into the shimmering heat. The day will be steamy.

Descheneaux climbs into the trench next to us, and peers out.

"We're going to be hit by a frontal assault in a couple of hours," I say to the sergeant. "Make sure the men are ready."

"Yes, sir," Descheneaux says. "They'll be prepared. I'm having them shaving right now."

I lower the glasses. "Shaving," I ask, puzzled.

"We're the 1st Special Service Force, sir. The Black Devils. We're soldiers, not cutthroats and robbers," Descheneaux says, staring out at the front. "So I want the men to look like soldiers. It's important for morale."

"Where did you get that theory from?" I ask. Kae Lyn, next to me, looks puzzled.

"Mr. Lewis gave me one of his old books, sir, when he made me a sergeant. An American book, 'The Non-Commissioned Officers' Guide.' It stresses the importance of personal appearance and grooming, even in combat. It's critical for morale, pride, and efficiency. It reduces fear."

Kae Lyn shakes her head. "When did you find time to read that?"

"It's what I did in the evenings, sir."

"How did you get picked to be a sergeant, Descheneaux," I ask him.

He keeps staring out into the distance. "Mr. Lewis found out I was a factory foreman back home in District 6, he said that what made me a good leader of men on a factory floor would make me a good leader of men in battle, sir."

Kae Lyn nods. "What made you join the rebellion, sergeant?"

"The Peacekeepers killed my father, sir," he says. "He didn't meet his quota on the floor. So they trussed him up and whipped him in front of his co-workers and my whole family. Killed him." His jaws move, his voice is tight and laconic. "I had to go into the factory at age 14 to feed my family after that."

"Did you take tesserae?" I ask.

"Yes, sir. But I never got reaped. I guess the odds were in my favor. But one of my pals was reaped. He got killed in the first 30 seconds, in the bloodbath at the Cornucopia. The odds were not in his favor."

There is a silence in the air, the only sound the keening of the endless wind. I wonder if this area is part of what used to be called the Great Plains. Or is that far to the east of us.

"You know, Sergeant, we share the same first name…"

Descheneaux cuts off my attempt at familiarity. "Sir, if that's all, I'd like to make sure the men have their weapons cleaned and ready."

"Okay. Carry on, Sergeant."

He hops out of the trench and over to a nearby hole. He takes three steps, and then I hear him yell, "Clark! Mitchell! I told you to clean those fucking pieces, didn't I? It looks to me like birds are nesting on your barrels!"

"He's extremely tough with the men," Kae Lyn says.

"He has to be," I say.

Overhead I hear a bird cry. Kae Lyn and I look up. "Is that an eagle?" she asks.

"Maybe a hawk," I say, as the bird of prey wheels over us.

"As long as it's not a vulture," she answers.

XXXXX

"So we sat there in our ditches for the next two hours," I say.

"Nothing happened," Peeta says.

"We just waited. We hoped that Gray would start his attack, but we didn't hear any artillery. It was actually kind of nerve-wracking…you knew something was going to happen, but didn't know when. The waiting was unpleasant."

"But it ended," Katniss says.

"It ended," I answer.

XXXXX

The sun is high in the sky when Col. Lewis himself slides into our trench, binoculars at the ready. "Mind if I join you again," he asks, with a grin.

"Please do, sir," I say.

He looks out into the distance. "They'll be attacking soon," he says. "Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir," I say. Kae Lyn places her camera on the edge of the dugout.

"Have you any wisdom for us, sir?" I ask. I find myself enjoying picking Lewis's brain of military history.

"Not wisdom as much as observations," Lewis answers. "This situation has plenty of parallels in history. The Greeks at Thermopylae, the Guards at Waterloo, and the 20th Maine at Gettysburg."

I stare at him blankly. He's shared with me some of his books, and I've read or skimmed them in my limited spare time. The 20th Maine at Gettysburg rings a bell, though. "The 20th Maine held a hill at the extreme left flank of a defensive line."

"Right. And they probably turned the tide of the American Civil War. But that was just one day of fighting. This is more like 1st or 2nd Ypres." He pauses. "You pronounce that 'Wipers,' Shakespeare."

"I don't know much about that," I say.

"The battles of Ypres lasted a lot longer than one day," Lewis says. "And this is going to be like the first battle."

"What does that mean, sir?" Kae Lyn asks.

Lewis points out at the fields before us. "The Peacekeepers are going to attack us in battle line formation, like the Germans attacked the British at 1st Ypres, in 1914."

We stare at him, still baffled.

Without turning around, Lewis sighs. "I'll give you the short version. In November 1914, the Germans launched one last big attack against the British at Ypres, to break through the exhausted and under-strength British defenses, to take the British ports and supply bases, and end the First World War by Christmas. The British were down to their very last troops, but they were the finest army in the world, and the best marksmen. They could fire off 15 rounds a minute with bolt-action rifles, which was unheard of at the time.

"The Germans attacked, and the British held the ground and counterattacked. The last German attack was made by a bunch of newly-trained reservists from Bavaria. They had all joined together and trained together, and they marched into battle, singing their school songs and some of them arm-in-arm. The British cut them down. It was a massacre. The Germans called it 'The Massacre of the Innocents.'"

"What do you call it, sir?" I ask.

"A demonstration of the effectiveness of training and marksmanship," Lewis answers.

"So why does this relate to us," I ask.

Lewis scans the terrain ahead of us for what must be the 50th time. "Because we will demonstrate to the Peacekeepers the effectiveness of our training and marksmanship, and we will massacre the lot."

He sits back in the trench, still staring out, his arms folded. "Show contempt for them, Shakespeare. They are beneath you."

"They represent the power of Panem and President Snow," Kae Lyn observes.

"Precisely why we hold them in contempt," Lewis says. "If you think your enemy is stronger, better, and more powerful than you, then they are. 'He who fears being conquered is sure of defeat.'"

"I'll quote you on that," I say.

"Well, make sure you attribute it properly. It comes from Napoleon Bonaparte."

I flip out my notebook and start scribbling.

"Getting ready, Shakespeare?" Lewis says. "Remember that you're a soldier first today."

"I know, sir."

Lewis rises from the trench and says, "Make sure your machine-guns have interlocking fields of fire."

"They do, sir."

Lewis nods and peers out. "Well, I'd better go and inspire the men."

"Any more advice for me, sir?"

Lewis smiles again. "Another quote from Napoleon. 'Never interrupt your enemy when he is making a mistake.' Strike sure."

He hops out and goes to the forward foxholes, to chat with the men, and build up morale. I stare out at the fields.

Nothing there. Just grass and brush.

Then I see it. The glint of the sun on a white helmet. Approaching. Then another one. Then a line of them.

A second later, Descheneaux slides into my trench. "Enemy in sight, sir," he says, quietly.

"I see them, Sergeant," I say, trying to sound calm. "Stand to, the Second Platoon."

"Yes, sir." He leaps out of the trench, and yells, "Second platoon, stand to!" The troops re-echo his order, and I hear the other platoons prepping their weapons. He turns back to us, and says, "Sir, remember. Short bursts. Don't overheat the barrel." I nod. He goes.

A moment later, Lewis is in our trench. "You saw them?" he asks.

"Yes, sir." I try to point, and Lewis smacks my hand down.

"Don't point, they might think you're an officer and somebody they want to shoot at," Lewis says. We both stare out with our binoculars. Kae Lyn starts snapping long-range photographs.

Now I can see more of them. They are advancing in a line, directly toward us, in their gleaming white helmets, rifles at the ready.

"They were probably off-loaded at the rail terminal and told to attack," Lewis says. "They didn't do any reconnaissance, any scouting, and they're all lined up. Lovely, lovely."

The Peacekeepers approach us, moving forward in silence, rifles unslung and ready.

"Nice formation," Lewis says. "Like a parade." He shakes his head.

I have my rifle pointed out at the enemy. They keep coming. Steady, determined. They are holding us in contempt, as well.

"When they come to 800 yards, open fire," Lewis says. He seems calm. I can feel my heart pounding, and sweat trickling down. Kae Lyn starts taking photographs.

Lewis's binoculars give him readouts on the distance. "Twelve hundred yards," he says. A nervous Black Devil fires off a shot.

"Wait for the command," I yell.

The Peacekeepers don't seem to notice the lone loose shot. They keep advancing.

"One thousand yards," Lewis says.

Overhead, I hear a hawk screeching. I hope it isn't a vulture.

"Eight hundred yards," Lewis says. "Let 'em have it."

"SECOND PLATOON," I yell. "RAPID INDEPENDENT FIRE!"

My men open fire, as I do. "Short bursts," I mutter to myself, and open fire.

Hollow-point bullets whiz across the open field, smacking the Peacekeepers in their neat white body armor. The bullets rip through the armor and tear holes in the Peacekeepers. I fire short bursts at the enemy. Peacekeepers spurt blood in the distance and crumple to the ground. Those that are not hit charge toward us, firing their rifles. Bullets fly in opposite directions. I look to my left and see my troops blazing away with their rifles.

"Short bursts," I yell. Two Black Devils in the trench next to mine nod and fire short bursts.

Ahead of me, the Peacekeepers are still coming, but fewer of them. Some fire their weapons. Bullets stitch up the ground in front of me, to the right of me, to the left of me. I glance over at the left trench and see Peacekeeper bullets hit one of my men in the face, turning it into frothy red goo. The Black Devil collapses head first and slides down into his trench out of sight. Is that Mitchell? Miller? De la Cruz? I won't know until after the battle is over.

"Stay down," Kae Lyn yells and I take cover. More bullets rip up the ground in front of me. I get back up and fire another burst into the oncoming Peacekeepers, who are dwindling in number. My rifle clicks. I slide back down into my dugout and swap in a new magazine. Then I climb back up and fire a few more shots. The Peacekeepers are going down. Fewer shots are coming from them.

"Okay, they're close enough, and we've cut them down enough. Let's get them." Lewis puts down his binoculars, unflaps his pistol, and leaps out of the trench. He points at the enemy. "Black Devils, let's go! Strike sure!"

Kae Lyn and I follow Lewis out of our dugout. I yell, "Second Platoon! Follow me!"

The whole platoon leaps out of their dugouts and trenches and charges toward the Peacekeepers, screaming and yelling. Now the entire battalion is charging toward the enemy, firing their rifles, howling with fury to cover fear. My hands feel damp, but I am able to clutch my rifle and fire bullets.

We storm down the hill, through grass and flowers, and into the attacking Peacekeepers, mowing them down. Bullets screech past my left ear. I fire towards the Peacekeeper who has just shot at me, and ugly red holes appear in his body armor. He crumples to the ground. We keep charging, now slightly ahead of Lewis, to protect the boss. The Peacekeepers are falling in clumps.

I see a Peacekeeper in front of me trying to fire shots, and I smash the butt of my rifle over his helmet. He falls to the ground. I spin my rifle on him and fire shots into his face and chest, ripping the face apart and tearing new gashes in the armor. Another Peacekeeper charges toward me, wielding his rifle butt. Before I can aim my rifle, Kae Lyn fires shots into him. The Peacekeeper keeps struggling toward me, almost drunkenly, spurting blood. Descheneaux fires a shot at nearly point-blank range into the Peacekeeper's helmet and it explodes, sending bits of brain flying in all directions and blood gushing out. The Peacekeeper collapses on the ground. I am covered with his gray matter. I want to vomit, but Descheneaux grabs me and pushes me forward. I keep charging through the mass of Peacekeepers, who are falling around me.

I see another Peacekeeper trying to rise from the ground and fire shots into him. He bucks and jerks, then falls on the ground, twitching in death agony.

Lewis yells, "Check fire, check fire, check fire!"

The gunfire stops. We all stand in the field, clutching our weapons. Most of the Peacekeepers are dead and dying, lying on the ground. The rest are fleeing, some of them carrying wounded Peacekeepers back, out of range.

"Second platoon, cease fire," I yell. We draw up on the edge of the field, watching the survivors retreat.

"They're running, they're running, good God, they're running," one of my Black Devils yells, a replacement named Greenberg. She grabs my arm. "They're running all the way back to the Capitol!"

"Well, don't go after them," I say. "Our job is to hold this bridge."

We stand on the field, staring at the retreating enemy. Lewis walks up to us, followed by Jennifer, Salmon, and Cornbread. "Get a casualty count," he says. "And strip these guys of their weapons and ammo." He turns to Salmon. "Then we'll withdraw to our positions. Mr. Fish, plant some Claymore mines here. When these shitheads come back to carry off their wounded, they'll get a nasty little surprise."

Salmon grins, nods, and sets off to scrape up some mines.

Lewis faces us. "They'll be back in a couple of hours. They'll try again."

"What do you want to do about the dead and wounded," Jennifer asks.

Lewis takes off his helmet and wipes his brow. "Our guys we will bury by the bridge, properly. These shitheads you can leave here. Seeing them will have a deleterious effect on their morale."

"You want to do anything for their wounded?" I ask.

"Damn it," Lewis says. He looks around at the heaps of corpses. "Some of these guys may be wounded. Always one more thing. Shakespeare, have your platoon check for wounded before we pull back. Anybody that's wounded we'll take back with us."

I nod at Descheneaux, and he yells at my platoon to start wading through the bodies, looking for wounded men, stripping them of ammunition.

"Where do we put them, sir?" Jennifer asks.

"Lock them in the truck stop under guard for now. Maybe we can evacuate them by hover-plane later," Lewis says. He looks down at the sprawled bodies. "There won't be too many wounded men." He yells at Descheneaux, "Look for papers, too."

"Yes, sir," Descheneaux says, as he yanks at a corpse, ripping his ammunition pouches open.

"There won't be too many useful documents," Lewis says. "These shitheads probably don't even know who they were fighting." We walk through the bodies, past waving flowers and bloodied bodies. The air smells of cordite and fresh blood.

"The odds were not in their favor today," I say.

"No, they were not," Lewis says.

A body moves. A Peacekeeper lying on the ground moans up at us. "Shoot me," she says.

"What," I say, dropping down next to her, rifle aimed.

"Shoot me," the Peacekeeper gasps. "Shoot me."

Kae Lyn kneels down next to the Peacekeeper, removes her helmet, and opens her body armor. It reveals ghastly wounds. The Peackeeper's organs are exposed and gushing blood and bile. "She's dying," Kae Lyn says, looking up. The officers' group gathers around the dying Peacekeeper.

"Shoot me," the Peacekeeper gasps again. "I can't take it."

"Shit," Lewis says. He aims his pistol squarely at her head.

"Wait," I say. "What's your name, soldier." Lewis winces. He does not respect the enemy.

"Victoria Appleview," she gasps. "District 2." Long pause. "I want my mommy."

I pull my notebook out of my pouch, and scribble down her name. "I'm from District 2," I say. "I'll tell your family."

"How are you going to do that?" Jennifer asks.

"District 2 isn't that huge," I say. "I'll find the Appleviews."

Kae Lyn tries to make the dying Peacekeeper comfortable, patting her forehead with a handkerchief. I shoot Kae Lyn a look, to ask if there's any chance. Kae Lyn shakes her head.

"How many more of you are there," Lewis asks, coldly. "Are they coming again?"

Victoria nods. "There are more. We got here this morning…I want my mommy," she splutters. "Please shoot me." Her face is twisted in agony.

Lewis aims his pistol directly at her face. "Okay. Just know that you were defeated by the First Special Service, the Black Devils." He fires a single shot at close range into her face. It tears apart, and she dies. Lewis jams his pistol back in its holster. We all stare down at Victoria Appleview's corpse. Nobody says anything for a long moment.

Kae Lyn checks her pulse, and rises. "She's dead," she says flatly.

Another long silence.

"That is how we do that, ladies and gentlemen," Cornbread says, almost cheerily.

"That was a nice gesture, Shakespeare," Lewis says, his voice chilly. "But don't call them 'soldiers.' They're 'Peacekeepers' or 'shitheads.' They're a disgrace to soldiering. They're not the Scots Guards."

I stare down at the dead Peacekeeper. "Sir, my father was a Peacekeeper."

"I know that," Lewis says, cutting me off. "Don't tell me one of these kids could be your father. Because they're not. Your father's back home. He's not here. And he told you to join the rebellion, so he has honor. These shitheads are neither soldiers nor honorable. They're sadistic bastards. If you think they're anything more, you won't be able to kill them."

"What we just did…"

"We ended her agony, Shakespeare. She was dead the minute she decided to join the Peacekeepers. She chose her fate. Let's go." I rise up from the corpse, glance at it, and look away. I can feel my hands shaking.

"You did very well today, Shakespeare," Lewis says, shifting gears. "You struck sure."

"I thought we weren't going to charge them," I say.

"Not when they were at a distance," Lewis says. "The native Americans used to do that, putting out a small bait force just at the edge of the white American cavalry's range, and the wasichus – that's what the Sioux called the white men – would ride off against the tiny force in an impetuous charge. When they reached the little band of Sioux, they'd find thousands more ready in ambush, and get slaughtered."

"So you didn't want that to happen," I say. "You drew them in, cut them down, and then counterattacked."

"I put the odds in our favor," Lewis says. "You're getting it, Shakespeare. You'll make a good tactician some day."

"I'd rather be a good writer," I say.

"You can be both," Lewis says. "But you can be a good writer later, or at any time. I need you to be a good officer now." I nod my head in response.

We walk away from the corpse and stare out. Descheneaux and Second Platoon have planted their mines and are all straggling back to our positions. Lewis peers through his binoculars into the distance. The retreating surviving Peacekeepers are gone.

Lewis nods his head and points into the distance with his swagger stick. "They'll be back in a couple of hours with another attack," he says. "The odds were in our favor today."

He folds his arms and gazes around the scene. We scrutinize a field full of bodies, pieces of Peacekeeper uniforms, waving grass, and flowers. "I guess you better work on your story, Shakespeare," Lewis says.

"Yes, sir," I say. "Kae Lyn and I will get cracking on that."

"This is a big victory for us," Lewis says. It is our first major operation, I think.

I hear a noise behind us. We all turn and look toward our positions. The Black Devils, having returned to their positions, are standing on top of their dugouts, cheering the victory, hooting insults at the Peacekeepers. Behind them, Lewis's Canadian flag snaps in the breeze.

Kae Lyn grins at me. "I said we would be cheering," he says. "I love being right all the time."

"You suck," I fire back, smiling.

"So do you, pal," she answers.

Lewis smiles hugely, points his swagger stick at me, trembling with emotion. "One of the books I let you read, Shakespeare, is appropriate to this situation. Do you remember it? 'Vimy.' By Pierre Berton."

I recall it. An ancient book, hundreds of years old. It's about Canada's greatest military triumph, the seizure of Vimy Ridge, in World War I. He wanted me to understand how the Canadian troops created a solution to the deadlock of trench warfare, but, more importantly, how his nation found its identity by winning the battle.

"I told you how important it is that we build a sense of identity in the rebellion," Lewis says. "Do you remember the little paragraph at the front of the book?"

I think for a moment. Then I do. It's a little quote from a veteran of the battle, given 50 years later. "Yes, sir." I straighten up. "He said, 'As far as I could see, south, north, along the miles of the Ridge, there were the Canadians. And I experienced my first full sense of nationhood.' I was struck by that. Didn't understand it."

"Now do you get it? Because I'm feeling it, too," Lewis says. "I don't know what country we're going to create after we win this rebellion, but today, you and I, are citizens of that nation. We are no longer slaves of Panem. We are free men, and this is our country."

I feel within me a growing sense of urgency and pride.

Lewis starts heading back to the trenches, clapping me on the shoulder as we join him. "Come on, Shakespeare. Let's get ready for the next attack. We have to defend our country."


	16. Chapter 16

**INTERVIEW WITH THE MOCKINGJAY – Chapter 16**

"What did you do with the bodies of the Peacekeepers," Katniss asks.

"We left them there that day," I say. "We planted a few mines and booby traps around them, in case they sent out a scouting or retrieval party. That way, they couldn't sneak in and scout our positions."

"What were your casualties," Peeta asks.

XXXXX

"We have 23 dead and 13 wounded," Sgt. Allen tells Lewis, beneath the flagpole. The battalion's top sergeant hands Lewis a handwritten list of names of the dead. The colonel scans the list.

Kae Lyn, Jennifer, Salmon, and I all squeeze next to Lewis to read the names. Nobody wants to mention Lewis's statement that he was going to bring everyone back alive.

Lewis folds the list and hands it to me. "Shakespeare, make sure you put the names in your story, and their districts," he says. "That's probably the only way their families will be notified."

I place the list into my front pocket. Lewis kicks the ground, scattering dust. "So much for bringing everyone home alive," he says.

There is a long silence, broken only by the wind and the flag whipping over our heads. Finally Lewis says, "Well, no battle plan survives its first contact with the enemy." He shakes his head.

"Let's go check on the wounded," Lewis says. We all walk over to the truck stop. Our doctor, Valerie Okamoto, and her two healers, are treating the wounded men and women inside, giving them morphling and other drugs. She is another refugee from the Capitol, who joined the Underground when she started treating Peacekeepers who had attempted suicide or self-inflicted wounds after torturing people in the government's dungeons. They told her horrific stories of sadism and abuse, cracked up under the strain, and tried to kill or maim themselves. After she addressed their wounds, they were usually hauled off and executed themselves for cowardice.

Round with the additional weight that Capitol residents are able to gain, but hardened by her military training, Valerie has her hair bunched up and held together with a group of pins, and her face is oval. She looks up from a Black Devil who she is bandaging around the shoulder.

"Hi, colonel," she says, in her squeaky voice.

"How are you doing," Lewis says.

"I'm fine, sir," Valerie responds.

"And the wounded?"

"Two of them are going to die," she says flatly. "Nothing I can do for them."

"Can we call up a hoverplane and have them evacuated," Lewis says.

Valerie shakes her head. "They'll be dead before that plane ever got here," she says. "The rest of them we can evacuate."

Lewis nods, and turns to Jennifer. "Get that done," he says. She heads out of the building.

Valerie and her healers have pushed the tables and chairs of the truck stop's diner area away to leave an open space on the floor for the wounded men, who lie in a row, on blankets, covered in bloody uniforms and bandages. We all look down the line of men and women. Kae Lyn quietly snaps photographs, more for the record than for publication. Most of the troopers have been doped up with morphling, so they are unconscious. Some are moaning.

Lewis purses his lips. His face is drawn. These are men and women he has trained and led into battle. At least one woman has a shredded left leg – it will probably have to come off.

Lewis stands over them, folds his arms, and looks across at the wounded. Finally, he speaks. "Guys, I want you to know that I am truly sorry about what has happened to you. What you did today stopped the Peacekeepers cold. We completely defeated their attack, and sent the survivors packing. We're still holding the ground."

One of the wounded Black Devils claps her hands. She is not being sarcastic.

"Thanks," Lewis says to the trooper, with a slight smile. Then, resuming his little address, Lewis says, "You've done everything you could to win today, and more. Shakespeare and Kae Lyn here will make sure you get written up with honor, as heroes."

Lewis's voice is cracking under the strain. "We're going to evacuate you as soon as possible, and by tonight, you'll be back at the base in District 7, and we'll have healers and doctors knocking themselves out taking care of you." He smiles again, and then the smile drops. "If I'd been a better commander, you guys would not be here. I'm sorry. Any questions?"

A wounded man raises his hand.

"Yes, soldier…what's your name?"

"Robinson, sir."

"Okay, Robinson. What's your question?"

"How many dead?"

"We lost 23 dead," Lewis says. "Shakespeare has the names. I'll make sure we post those names, too." He shoots me a look. "Shakespeare, I'll need those names."

"Yes, sir," I say.

Lewis turns back to his wounded men. "We're going to hold this bridge for you, guys. You've earned it. Some day they'll name it after you. Thank you for everything."

He then starts walking down the line of wounded men, talking to each in turn. I turn to Kae Lyn. "It's only going to get worse," I say to her.

"It's a rebellion," she replies. "People are going to get wounded and killed. How do you think the families of those Peacekeepers are going to feel tonight? And their buddies will be back soon."

"I don't know if I could cope with you lying there. Or Meredith."

"I'll be all right. And she'll be all right. She's in a nice big armored fighting vehicle, with steel armor between her and the Peacekeepers. All we have are our ditches."

I nod.

"Shakespeare," Lewis yells. "Come here and give me those names."

I walk toward Lewis, taking the list of names out of my pocket.

XXXXX

"Were any of them your men?" Archer asks.

"Yeah. Miller was killed. Took it in the face. We identified him by process of elimination."

"What did you do with the bodies of your guys," Peeta asks. I notice that he seems extremely concerned with the fates of the various corpses.

"Gus Lewis designated an area by the bridge to be a cemetery for our men," I say.

XXXXX

Some of the Black Devils are digging graves for our dead men, and Valerie and Jennifer are making sure the dead are being properly buried, their names and personal effects cross-checked. I have had a bench dragged out from the blasted guardhouse, and am typing up my story on my laptop, while Kae Lyn shoots more photographs.

Lewis collapses onto the bench next to me, taking a look at my story. "How's it going, Shakespeare?"

"Fine, sir. It'll be a nice piece of propaganda for our side. George Altman will be happy. So will Plutarch Heavensbee. Heroic rebels holding the ground against the Capitol's monsters."

Lewis smiles. "Almost as good as the Mockingjay herself." He pauses. "You want to say it, Shakespeare."

"What's that, sir?"

"'What happened to everyone coming back alive?'"

"Well, sir, I didn't want to sound out of line, but, yes, I'd kind of like to know about that. I mean…people always die in war."

"My job is, among other things, to maintain morale. I can't make Cassius Gray move faster, I can't bring up more ammunition and food, I can't bring up more men, and I certainly can't re-attach broken limbs or raise the dead. But one thing I can do is raise morale. So I make sure every man and woman here believes he or she is invincible. Morale, Shakespeare. It is the vital factor. Moral is to the physical as three to one, Napoleon said."

"Got it, sir," I say.

"I want you to remember something else…soldiering has a great trap. A famous author made that point centuries ago. To be a good soldier, you must love your army. But to win a battle, you have to be willing to send the thing you love to its death. That's the trap. You're never prepared for everyone dying. A chosen few, a couple of guys to toast in the officers' mess or at the ceremony when they unveil the war memorial, yes. But not everybody. And when you fight, you have to hold nothing back, and be prepared to sacrifice everyone in your outfit – everyone you love – to win the battle. But if they all die, have you won? Is it all worth it?"

I shut the laptop. "If we bring down President Snow and win the rebellion, it's worth it."

"Is it worth your death?" Lewis asks.

"I'm prepared for mine," I say. "That's the chance I take. Same with the other guys, I guess. Better than being whipped to death by the Peacekeepers or dropping dead from exhaustion or starvation in the quarries. I'd rather die on my feet, if I have to die."

"Fair enough. But how about your friends and loved ones? Are you prepared to see your father die? Kae Lyn? How about Meredith?"

My face flushes.

"Shakespeare, I'm not stupid. You two connected like magnets and iron, as my daughter would say. I saw you two. It was an instant link. I'm just impressed that you two found enough discipline to not get yourself into a compromising situation."

I turn red again. I know that two couples were booted out when they were caught being "intimate" during training. "We both believe in the cause, sir," I say. "It's like something you once said in a lecture…the fastest way for us to be together is by winning the war. Once that's done…" My voice peters out, as the reality of the situation hits me.

"Don't think that far ahead, Shakespeare. But don't let her out of your thoughts. Another great little paradox."

XXXXX

Katniss smiles and shoots Meredith a look. "Did you think ahead that far?"

Meredith has her turn to blush. "I did. All the time." She looks at me, eyes brimming. "I worried about you all the time. You were out there…I only relaxed when they posted your stories and Kae Lyn's photos, and I knew that you were all right."

"I had no idea if you were alive or dead," I say.

"What did you do all that first day, when you were supposed to be attacking," Katniss asks.

"We brought up supplies…everybody who could was sent back to the ammunition dumps to carry or bring up shells to the guns. I spent the whole day driving a truck back and forth, moving ammo," Meredith says.

"There really was an ammunition shortage?" Archer asks.

"People think war is about strategy and tactics and heroism," I say, bitterly. "It's really about training, morale, and most importantly, logistics. That's what Colonel Lewis said."

"So while Meredith was driving around, what were you doing?"

XXXXX

Jennifer comes up to Lewis. "Sir, we've taken care of the burials. Did you want to do anything?"

"Like what?" Lewis asks, blank.

"Well, in some Districts, they do a ceremony for the dead. In mine, we place roses on the graves. In District 7, they have preachers. In District 12, they have that salute where everybody touches the three middle fingers of their left hand to their lips and holds it out. Everybody's doing that in the rebellion, now."

"I remember that," I say. "That came from the Mockingjay paying tribute to her pal Rue in the 74th Hunger Games, which started this whole mess."

"Right," Lewis says, echoing me. "We'll do a ceremony later. We can't do it now. We have to get ready for the next Peacekeeper attack. Jennifer, pass the word. O Group in 20 minutes. Right here."

Jennifer dashes off. Kae Lyn approaches, and takes a photograph of Lewis and I sitting on the bench.

"Taking a shot of my ugly mug," I ask Kae Lyn.

"You suck," Kae Lyn says.

"You suck, too. Can't shoot a picture or a rifle."

"All you do is pound a keyboard. That isn't writing."

"Do you two have this down to a routine," Lewis says.

"It's our running gag," I say.

Lewis rises to his feet, and chuckles. "If this was an old movie, this would be a nice little love triangle, Shakespeare. You'd have to choose between Meredith and Kae Lyn."

"We're not lovers, sir," Kae Lyn says. "Never have been."

"I guess that would be the world of fiction, not fact," Lewis says. "Doesn't happen in real life."

XXXXX

Katniss stares at me, eyes cold.

"What?" I ask, startled.

"It does happen in real life," she says.

Peeta grips her hands with his. "Don't go there just yet," he says. "Easy."

"I know a little about it," I say.

"I know you know," Meredith says, squeezing my hand.

"So what happened at the O Group," Archer says, trying to break the tension.

XXXXX

The officers are standing around the flagpole, again. Lewis has his clipboard out, as he sits on the bench. "I'm getting tired of standing," he says.

"If we can stand for you, we can stand for anything," Jennifer quips.

Lewis laughs. "You're a pistol, Jennifer." He pauses. "Okay, Peacekeeper attack, Phase Two. Now that they have failed with a full-bore frontal assault, we know they won't do that again. So we have to find out what they will do. I want Shakespeare and Kae Lyn to take a four-man patrol down the road to find out what they're doing. Do everything you can not to be spotted. Now, the road rises and has an embankment about three-quarters of a mile from here, so I want you to take cover on the right side of the road at that embankment and report in when you spot the enemy. Do not engage them. When we know what they're doing, we'll respond. Whatever response we take, I plan to use Shakespeare's patrol to ambush the Peacekeeper attack as it comes toward us.

"We'll have all the platoons stand to for an instant counterattack," Lewis finishes. "We change the way we play the game, we keep the odds in our favor."

"Why don't we just let them come to us again, and knock them down like before? We've put out mines now," Salmon asks. "The mines will cut them down."

"Because, Mr. Fish, that is what they are expecting, so I intend to surprise the little bastards," Lewis answers. "Any questions?"

"Why can't we get an airstrike," Salmon asks.

"The hoverplanes are all pretty busy," Lewis says. "We have a re-supply drop this afternoon. I think we need ammunition and food more than that airstrike. Any other questions?"

"I got one, boss," Cornbread says. "How come Shakespeare gets all the interesting assignments?"

"Because I need a reporter to explain this clearly, Cornbread. Think you're being cheated out of glory?"

Cornbread looks uneasy.

"Relax, Cornbread. I want you to lead the counterattack. Does that make you feel better?" Lewis says, with a thin smile.

"Uh…yes, sir," Cornbread says.

"Good. Any other questions? Everybody clear?"

We all nod.

"Let's get on with it, then. Strike sure."

Kae Lyn and I head back to our platoon, where the men are digging their trenches and cleaning their weapons, as usual. I find Sergeant Descheneaux standing near his foxhole, watching the men wield shovels. The guys are making sure we are dug in deep and well.

"Everything fine, sergeant?" I ask.

"Fine, sir," he says, without looking up. "Just making sure we're ready for the next attack."

"Are we?"

"We will be," the sergeant says.

"Great. Well, we have new orders. I need to take Kae Lyn and four men on a little patrol. Colonel Lewis wants to see what's down that road. Who do you recommend…"

Descheneaux cuts me off. "I'll pick the men, sir." He strides to the middle of the platoon area and yells, "Second Platoon! Listen up! I need four men who don't owe me any money, for a little routine patrol!"

Everybody stops what they're doing, and there is a ripple of laughter. Descheneaux yells, "I want four volunteers…Mitchell, De la Cruz, Clark, and Butler! On me and the lieutenant!" The four Black Devils so named sheepishly rise from their holes, rifles slung, and form up.

Descheneaux turns to me. "All yours, sir."

I say, quietly, "How did you pick them?"

"It's their turn, and they'll do the job, sir," Descheneaux says. He steps back.

"I guess you guys don't owe the sergeant any money," I say, trying to lighten the tone. Some chuckles follow. I glance at the faces: De La Cruz, dark and what they once called Latino. Mitchell another black kid, looking only freshly nourished, Clark a skinny brunette with long hair – she must have lost her hairpins – and Butler a guy with a wide face and sleepy eyes.

I explain to them the purpose of our patrol, and emphasize the importance of stealth. "We're not there to engage the enemy, but to spot the enemy. So try not to offend them." More laughter.

"Okay, full ammo scales. Let's go," I say, finishing up.

We set off into the increasingly warm afternoon, crossing the front line, inching down the road and across the field where the previous attack was beaten off. Dead Peacekeepers, body armor and equipment lies scattered among the grass, some of which is red with blood. The bodies are beginning to bloat and stink in the sun. They look purple. Amid them, Salmon and his engineers have planted mines, so that any Peacekeepers who come to retrieve their dead will get a nasty surprise.

Nobody talks as we walk past the corpses. We avoid looking at it, too. I glance at it momentarily, using my peripheral vision, and Kae Lyn chides me. "Forget it, Charlie. Nothing to see here."

"I gotta report," I say.

"Yeah, great job you do," Kae Lyn quips.

"You suck, too," I retort.

"Noise discipline, sir," Descheneaux mutters, his voice quiet and thin. I shut up.

We reach the beginning of the embankment and slide off the road, down the slope, and along the side. We clamber along. The road is on a high elevated embankment, going across a little valley. We come to a rusted barbed wire fence. Beyond it we can see the ruins of stone buildings.

According to our intelligence briefing, the Capitol's rail line crosses the Appian Way here, and the Peacekeepers are likely to run up their reserves to this point, and unload them here. We fall flat in the high grass on our bellies, and Kae Lyn and I whip out our high-powered binoculars, to study the enemy movements.

I peer at the ruined buildings opposite us. The Peacekeepers have apparently set up a headquarters amid them, with tents and tables. I can see laborers assembling pre-fabricated huts, digging ditches, and even installing light towers.

XXXXX

"It looked like the support structure for a Hunger Games Arena," I say to Katniss.

She looks a little blankly at me. "I mostly saw them from the inside," she says.

"They have little trailers and pre-fabricated buildings around their edges, as forward control points for the games," Archer says. "I've been on the sites."

"Did you ever visit the sites for our games," Peeta asks.

"Never," Archer answers. "I never got the chance…but they're all the same. Well, at the control points, that is."

"Did they all have cannons?" Katniss asks.

"Every single one. A 105mm towed howitzer. They kept them polished, and visitors would get their photographs taken, posing with the big gun. Sometimes they'd fire them. They make a hell of a bang," Archer says.

"I know," Katniss says, quietly.

"What were the stone ruins," Meredith asks. "Just wondering."

"That's a funny thing," I say. "When we were doing the planning, Salmon told me they looked like a survivalist compound. Bunker-dwellers from the wars before Panem. We actually knew something about them from the Underground."

XXXXX

"Those are pretty huge ruins," Kae Lyn whispers. "Good protection against our hover-planes. Our bombs would just bounce the rubble."

"Which is why we haven't bombed them," I say.

"Give them more defenses," Kae Lyn says. "God, I love being right all the time. Didn't Salmon say he knew about these kinds of compounds?"

"Yeah, he said his ancestors owed their survival to them, in his part of the country. Not because they were living in one of these compounds, but because they seized one."

"How did that happen?" Kae Lyn asks.

"He said the survivalists started running out of supplies and couldn't grow food because of the environmental damage to the atmosphere. So they started killing each other in a state of paranoia, and his family and their community moved in and took over, kicking out the few crazy people who were left."

"My grandmother told me once about a proverb about the 'meek inheriting the earth,'" Kae Lyn says.

"I guess so," I say. I study the distance, setting the binoculars onto a higher range. Now I can see a train on the tracks, and Peacekeepers and what appear to be laborers being disgorged. The Peacekeepers, spick-and-span in their white uniforms group into formation, while the laborers, under guard, line up to accept tools.

"It would be good if we could take some of those workers back and find out what they know," I say. "They'd probably be eager to talk."

"They would if they could," Kae Lyn answers. "But they're probably avoxes. The Capitol bastards wouldn't send anybody who could talk to the frontlines, and run just that risk." She grins. "I love being right all the time."

"Okay. It looks to me like they're forming up to attack," I say. The train moves down the track further, and reveals a pair of flatcars at its end. Laborers scramble to set up ramps from the flatcars, which are loaded with what look like fuel tanks. The laborers load them onto dollies and hand carts, and move them by some of the ruins, in a line. Peacekeepers order them around with the usual anger and bullying, and at least one Peacekeeper starts whipping a laborer. The worker appears to scream, and crumples to the ground. Several Peacekeepers kick the poor man with their boots, then stalk off, leaving the body there. It does not move.

I reach for my rifle, and Descheneaux grabs my arm. "Don't set them off, sir," he says, quietly. "Our job is to report."

I tug at the microphone on my portable radio, and do so. Gus Lewis is on the line in half a minute. "What have you got, Shakespeare?"

"The bad guys are unloading more troops, workers, and small things that look like fuel tanks," I say.

"How many Peacekeepers?" Lewis asks.

"About 200. They're forming up."

"Good, they're going to attack. What about those tanks? What size are they?"

"They're like 20-gallon cans," I say. "They're lining them up. "There are a lot of them."

"Okay. I'm going to send you some friends," Lewis says. "Wait until they get there. Do NOT reveal yourselves. Over and out."

"Got it." I click off the radio, and say to Kae Lyn and Descheneaux, "We're to stay here, and not reveal ourselves. Lewis is sending us some help."

"What are we going to do then," Kae Lyn asks.

"Lewis didn't say," I say.

"Counterattack," Descheneaux says, his voice definitive.

"With four guys?" I ask.

"With some friends," Descheneaux says. "It'll take those guys time to form up. Meantime, we stay here, nice and quiet, like mice." He turns to the four patrollers with us. "Like mice," he says to them, with force.

XXXXX

"So we waited as the afternoon rolled on," I say. "After the laborers finished lining up the tanks, they started building a little camp for themselves, and defensive positions. Meanwhile, we watched the Peacekeepers form up, check their ammo, and move into position."

"How many were there," Peeta asks.

XXXXX

"That's their third trainload," I say to Kae Lyn and Descheneaux.

"I estimate about 500 Peacekeepers have got off these trains," Descheneaux says.

"How do you know so much about trainloads and Peacekeepers," I ask.

"I had to deal with a lot of transport issues at my factory," Descheneaux replies.

I hear a whisper behind me, "Sergeant, I gotta take a shit," says Butler.

Descheneaux looks at him warily. "Can you hold it in?"

"No, sergeant. I really need to take a crap."

"Get on with it. Bag it up when you're done. And do it quick."

Butler hops up and heads off. Descheneaux turns to Clark. "Get over there and make sure he comes back," Descheneaux snarls quietly.

"Yes, sarge," Clark says, climbing up and following Butler.

"You think Butler's going to run?" I ask Descheneaux.

"Maybe yes, maybe no," Descheneaux says. "Either way, it's not your problem until I let you know, sir."

"What's the issue," I ask.

"Butler's a replacement, and he's a kid, and he needs watching," Descheneaux says. "I'll take care of it."

Minutes later, Butler comes running back, buttoning his pants, Clark behind him. Butler's sleepy eyes are wide, his face pale. "Sarge, I saw them! We're surrounded! Hundreds of guys to our rear!"

Clark is behind him, too, equally flustered. "I saw them, too, sarge!"

Thoughts of being cut off and surrounded by Peacekeepers race through my head. Seven of us against hundreds of Peacekeepers. Will they kill me or keep me alive to torture?

Amazingly, Descheneaux is calm. "May I have your binoculars, sir?" he asks.

I hand them to him, numbly. He gets on his knees, and looks to our rear, then smiles. "Nothing to worry about, sir." He hands the binoculars to Butler. "Take a look, soldier."

Butler looks through the binoculars, and his face goes from pale to red with embarrassment. "I thought…well, I saw…" His voice drains off.

"Get your ass down on the ground," Descheneaux says. "Both of you." Before Descheneaux can hand me the binoculars, three members of my platoon run up and drop next to me, followed by Lewis himself.

"I said I was bringing some friends," Lewis says.

"You said you were 'sending' them," I say.

Lewis shrugs. "Can't send men where I'm not willing to go," he says. The whole platoon has now joined me. Lewis whips out his own binoculars and studies the enemy position. "They brought up a lot of laborers," he says. "They're planning for the long haul."

"What are the tanks," I ask Lewis.

"That'll be tomorrow's problem," Lewis says. "I would say that the shitheads have brought in a Gamemaker to run this operation."

"So what are we going to do now?" I ask.

"Shakespeare, in about 15 minutes, the shitheads are going to attack us with about 100 or so Peacekeepers. We are going to let them pass down the road, and when they reach a point I have selected, Cornbread will counterattack them with the kind of furious assault I know he wants to wage. That will engage the shitheads and tie them down. They will be trapped on the road, on top of the embankment. Nowhere to go but back. Meanwhile, your platoon and I will scramble up this embankment and take them from the rear, in a nice little combination of American and British tactics."

"What's the combination," I ask.

"Cornbread will hold them by the nose and we will kick them in the balls," Lewis says. "American. Indirect assault. British. Any questions?"

"When do we attack," is mine.

"I'll give the word," Lewis says. "Then we all go in."

The Peacekeepers start forming up, to head down the road.

"I want this attack crushed, Shakespeare. Crushed. No mercy. The odds are in our favor."

"Yes, sir," I say.

XXXXX

"So your pal Butler mistook your own platoon for the Peacekeepers," Archer says.

"Yeah, while he was taking his dump," I say. "He was so scared, he forgot to pick it up."

"It must be still out there," Archer says, grinning.

"I guess so," I say.

"We buried ours during the Games," Peeta says. "So nobody could track it."

"Makes sense," Meredith says. "Lewis knew a thing or two about tactics."

"It was a mix of simplicity and complexity," I say. "He said he liked to combine the direct action, speed, and aggression of paratroopers with the preparation and indirect approach of commandos."

"We didn't have that," Meredith says. "It was direct action, speed, and aggression for us. Well, in theory."

"What was Butler's problem?" Katniss asks.

"He was like a lot of guys in his first fight…scared and nervous," I say.

"So what happened?"

XXXXX

The Peacekeepers are moving past us, in tight order, along the highway. When the road meets flatter terrain, obviously, they will loosen the formation to provide a less dense target than in the previous attack.

We have climbed up the embankment and are ready to spring up. We all look like little brown-and-green lumps on the side of the embankment. Kae Lyn has her camera out.

"Stupid bastards don't know to put out flankers," Lewis mutters softly. "Next time they will."

I nod, not wanting to add to any noise that might give away our position.

The last Peacekeepers pass over our position. We are now behind them. Lewis whispers into his microphone, "Strike sure." That signals Cornbread and his platoon, dug in amid the debris of the previous battle, watching out for Salmon's booby traps and mines, to attack.

Moments later, we hear the rattle and crack of gunfire as Cornbread's platoon leaps up from the ground and charges into the Peacekeepers. The din builds.

"Do we go in now," Butler, next to me, says nervously.

"Calmly, calmly," says Lewis. "We'll all go in together."

The noise becomes greater. Cornbread's troops are pressing their attack, and the Peacekeepers, while fighting back, are having trouble with Cornbread's ferocity.

"In a while," Lewis says. He is holding us back, waiting for the moment.

I see three Peacekeepers staggering back – two supporting a Peacekeeper who is vomiting blood. "Let them go," Lewis says.

The Peacekeepers stumble down the road. The one pouring blood crumbles to the ground, twitches, and stops moving. The other two look down at him, then dash back to the ruins and the tanks.

"Let's get on with it, then," Lewis mutters. He leaps up. "Strike sure!" he yells.

"Second platoon, charge!" I yell, and the entire platoon leaps up, scrambles up the bank, onto the paved road, yelling and screaming, charging into the mass of Peacekeepers from behind.

As we charge, I have a moment to appreciate the harsh beauty of Lewis's tactics – the Peacekeepers are trapped in a nutcracker on an elevated highway. Ahead of them is Cornbread's platoon. Behind them is mine. In their heavy armor, they can't easily get away down either side of the embankment. Even so, some of the Peacekeepers try to do so – and they trip and fall, tumbling down the embankment, unable to keep their footing.

Clark and Mitchell run over to the side, and pour fire down on four or five Peacekeepers that have tumbled that way, ripping gaping holes in their armor. Blood and organs gush out of the holes as the dying Peacekeepers tumble to the bottom of the embankment.

I lead the rest of my platoon into the rear of the shitheads, Lewis at my right and Butler at my left. We do indeed catch the Peacekeepers from behind, and mow them down with determination and fury, stitching up their armor. Peacekeepers collapse to the ground. Others turn around to learn the cause of the attack, and take bullets as they do so.

We close with the Peacekeepers, shooting at them. I hear my magazine go click. Empty. I forgot. Short bursts. A Peacekeeper is in front of me. I smash the butt end of my rifle down on his helmet and knock him to the ground. De la Cruz rakes him with shots while I change magazines.

Moments later, I rejoin my platoon. Some of my guys have the same problem…they didn't fire short bursts, and two of them are clubbing three Peacekeepers with their rifles. I fire on the Peacekeepers, and they are hit. One of them grabs his neck. He staggers toward me, clutching at his throat. I smack him in the face with the muzzle of my rifle, and he goes down on the ground, gasping and retching. I don't bother to check on his condition.

A Peacekeeper comes charging toward me and Butler. We fire at her, and Butler runs out of ammunition. The Peacekeeper blasts Butler in the stomach. Butler's sleepy eyes pop open. He falls toward the Peacekeeper, arms out, trying to grab him. The Peacekeeper backs away. Butler slams into the ground on his face. One of my men shoots the Peacekeeper at nearly point-blank range, and the Peacekeeper collapses on Butler's body. Their blood empties out onto the road together.

I keep charging along, running over twitching bodies of Peacekeepers. A Peacekeeper points his rifle directly at me. It clicks. It's empty. I don't waste a second, shooting him in the nose, and his head explodes from the shot. He drops to the ground. Another Peacekeeper is behind him. Before I can shoot him, the Peacekeeper raises his hands, and throws down his rifle. "I surrender!" he yells. "I don't want to die!"

I shove my rifle under his nose. "Your grenades!" I yell. "On the ground!"

He reaches into his armor and pulls out his two grenades, and tries to hand them to me.

"Place them on the ground!" I shout. "Don't fucking drop them! Fuck with me, and I'll blow your goddamn head off!"

The Peacekeeper places the grenades on the highway, his hands shaking.

"Now step away from them and lie down on your belly and put your hands on your head!" I shout.

He does so.

I keep my rifle covered on him with one hand, and reach down, grabbing his grenades. They look safe. I kick them aside, and grab his rifle, flinging it around my left shoulder.

"Don't fucking move! Turn to stone!" I yell.

He doesn't move. I keep my rifle covered on him. Clark runs up next to me. "Are those grenades safe?" I ask her.

She looks closely at them. "They're okay," she says. Both sides use nearly the exact same weaponry, so it's easy to know. She picks them up, and stuffs them into a pocket.

"Grab his magazines," I say to Clark. Her hair still streams out from under her helmet. I make a mental note to tell Descheneaux to tell her to find some hairpins. She yanks out the Peacekeeper's clips from his belt, while I plant my boot on his neck. "Don't fucking move," I say again.

He mutters a grunt in answer. I look around. The firing has died down. Our guys are standing around on the road, surrounded by dead Peacekeepers – and surrendered Peacekeepers. I see Descheneaux and De la Cruz herding a group of Peacekeepers together, and yank my prize to his feet. "What's your name?" I yell at him.

"Paleologus. Constantine Paleologus," the Peacekeeper says.

I thrust him at Descheneaux. "Hold him," I say. "Anybody left?"

"No, sir, I think we're all secure. Where's Butler?"

"Dead," I say. "Somewhere back there. Where's the enemy?"

"Still some fighting that way," Descheneaux says. He points toward Cornbread's attack.

"Take five men and hold these guys," I say. "Second Platoon, let's go!" I yell, and we form up to resume the pursuit. There are still Peacekeepers fighting back, having taken prone positions in the road, using bodies as sandbags. We rake them down. I see four Peacekeepers trying to escape down the embankment and I run over to them with some members of my platoon. "Freeze, motherfuckers!" I yell at them.

The Peacekeepers turn around, and see us. Sheepishly, they raise their hands.

"Throw down your rifles, grenades, and clips," I yell. "Then step back, hands in the air, where I can see them!"

The Peacekeepers do so.

Mitchell points his rifle at one, ready to shoot. "I want to take them down, sir," he says.

I knock his gun askew. "Hold on, Soldier," I say. The shooting has stopped. "Take these guys back to Sergeant Descheneaux," I say.

Mitchell shoves his rifle in a Peacekeeper's face. "Keep your hands up and get moving," Mitchell says.

The Peacekeepers, looking terrified, shuffle toward Descheneaux and their buddies.

"We got the bastards," Cornbread says, behind me. "That, ladies and gentlemen, is how we do that."

I look around the road. Our guys are standing on it, amid dead Peacekeepers, and live ones – and all of them are prisoners.

"Let's get these guys down the road," I say to Cornbread. "And find the colonel."

Cornbread nods. "Yeah." He starts giving orders to his platoon, and I round up my men and our prisoners.

"I know this shithead," Descheneaux says, pointing at Paleologus. "From my District. He liked to beat the hell out of people." Descheneaux leans in the Peacekeeper's face. He looks terrified. "Fucking funny now, huh?" Descheneaux yells.

Paleologus recoils, blubbering.

"Let's get the hell out of here before those guys counterattack," I tell Descheneaux. I yell at the Peacekeepers. "Down that road! Hands in the air! And shut the fuck up! Move!"

The Peacekeepers, hands high, shuffle down the road, their white armor and helmets stained with blood, grease, and gore.

As our two platoons move down the road, we see more bodies strewn along it, some with their helmets and skulls smashed open. Flies are beginning to muster around them.

"Let's get back to our positions," I say. "Where the fuck is Kae Lyn? And the colonel?"

"Right here, Shakespeare," Lewis calls out from the side of the road. Kae Lyn is with him, snapping photographs, and so is Lewis's signaler, Lombardi. "You did good."

"Thank you, sir."

"Let's get our asses back home," Lewis says. He turns to Lombardi. "Let Jennifer know we're coming in with live prizes."

"I saw Butler go down," I say to Lewis. "I don't know who else we lost."

Lewis nods, and yells at Descheneaux, "Sergeant, have the prisoners pick up our dead and wounded and bring them home. Make them do some honest work for a change."

"Yes, sir," Descheneaux shouts back. "What about their dead?"

"Leave those shitheads there," Lewis yells. Descheneaux grins.

As the prisoners, under guard, start lifting our dead and wounded, Kae Lyn strides over, ready for the fist-bump.

"Not until we're back," I say. "We're still vulnerable out here." I yell at Descheneaux. "Keep an eye on the rear. Make sure the shitheads don't attack while we're withdrawing."

"Yes, sir," Descheneaux shouts.

We start jogging back down the road. "Two 60-man platoons against 100 Peacekeepers," I say. "The odds were very close."

"But in our favor," Kae Lyn says.

As we withdraw, I watch the Peacekeepers carrying our dead and wounded. "The problem is, they're chipping away at us," I say. "They have zillions more Peacekeepers, but we came in with only 700 men."

"Don't think about that," Kae Lyn says.

We jog down the road in silence, past the bodies from the previous fight, stinking in the sun.

XXXXX

"It took us a few minutes to get back to our lines," I say.

"What were your casualties," Katniss asks.

"Another 11 dead, and seven wounded. We took 55 prisoners."

"Why did they surrender so easily?" Archer asks.

"They panicked. They were caught between a hammer and an anvil, and had nowhere to go," I say. "They were overwhelmed."

"But their pals were nearby. They could have fought their way out," Archer says.

"They were Peacekeepers," I say. "Lewis told us that all the time. They were bullies, not an army. When bullies face a fair fight, they crumble. And their pals don't lift a finger to help them."

"What did you do with those 55 prisoners?" Katniss asks.

"Well, that was the next problem," I say.


End file.
